


my very soul demands you

by veterization



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Butler Stiles Stilinski, M/M, Period romance, jane eyre au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-26
Updated: 2018-01-26
Packaged: 2019-03-09 19:32:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 71,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13488306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veterization/pseuds/veterization
Summary: Orphan Stiles Stilinski seeks work at Hale House, an enormous, foreboding mansion in Beacon Hills run by Mr. Peter Hale, who employs him as a butler. Or: Stiles is Jane Eyre, and Peter is Mr. Rochester.





	my very soul demands you

**Author's Note:**

> WELCOME TO THE JANE EYRE AU, aka the alternate universe fic that Stiles and Peter deserve.
> 
> So this was intended to be just one small chapter out of many in a kiss prompt list fic, just a tiny way to try my hand at writing with a bit of a historical spin, and then it grew a life of its own and I decided it needed to be its own thing. MONTHS LATER, I ended up with this. I inadvertently damned myself when I decided I was going to channel the long lost Brontë sister I clearly (ha) am and write this with something of a Victorian spin, which started out fun and pretty soon became a chore of the HIGHEST CALIBER because as it turns out, that is not my natural writing voice. Almost like I wasn't born in the 1700s. What a surprise, huh?
> 
> I am a big fan of Jane Eyre and this story ended up inspiring me to do a massive reread, so if nothing else, I'm grateful for that--if you haven't read Jane Eyre, you really ought to! It's wonderful, and well written, and REALLY, it fits Stiles and Peter sooooo well. We're talking Byronic hero, a big ol' mansion, even BIGGER secrets, and a bad fire. This story was BUILT for these two and if you disagree, gimme your location I JUST WANNA TALK.
> 
> Certain liberties have been taken here: basically, this story is set in the Victorian period, and acts like it is, except with the one caveat that homosexuality is normal. Extremely normal. If you're looking for era-appropriate homophobia and repression and angst, this ain't the place. That being said, this story, given the style I've written it in, is probably not going to be everyone's cup of tea. For those of you whom it IS, however, I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it. It put me through the wringer and drove me mad at times (see: [this tweet](https://twitter.com/Veterization/status/956221131064737792)) but I also put a BUTTLOAD of effort into it so I desperately hope it will please and torment in equal measure.
> 
> Also, things will get a little bit emotional, a little bit sappy, and very sentimental. IT'S A VICTORIAN AU, SO SUE ME

It was a cold October day when Stiles neared the Hale House estate enough to catch a glimpse of it beyond the horizon’s mounting fog. It was was a great, towering thing, almost ugly in the way it cut into the nature surrounding it, the sharp angles of its rooftop battling for space in the sky with the jagged trees lining the property. Fall had come early this year, leaving most branches empty and skeletal save for a few crisp clusters of brown leaves near the meristems.

Stiles could hardly fathom the idea of feeling at home there. Then again, such a feeling was a luxury he knew better than to seek. At this point, after a grueling number of hours in a carriage listening to little else but the rhythmic clapping of the horse’s hooves, Stiles was aching for little more than a fire to soften his numb skin. The evening was dreadfully cold; the moon hung, a frosty orb, pale as a cloud, in the already darkening sky as cool winds began to whistle past Stiles’ body.

He wondered how warm the mighty house would be, if it would be alive with many voices and ideas, or if it would be as cool as its exterior implied. The house stood alone amongst dead trees, no neighbors in sight. Stiles had passed all those tight-knit communities hours ago, little towns with homes and churches and lights tucked away together in the distance, but here, little seemed to exist on the earth outside from the estate, its lack of adjacent establishments no doubt making it appear all the grander. The closer they came, the larger it grew.

It was a new beginning, Stiles promised himself as he closed his eyes to the carriage’s swaying; he had slept little during the journey to Beacon Hills out of nerves. It felt prudent to secure at least a little rest before the journey ended.

\--

The house, if possible, was even more magnificently imposing on the inside than its exterior. The ceiling was high, vault-like in its grandeur, and the rooms were vast, nearly echoing sound in their depth. It felt as if bats could come swooping down from the tall corners any moment and descend from the cold skies, the walls cool to the touch when Stiles stepped inside.

“Come sit by the fire,” a voice said from the room to Stiles’ left. “You look dreadfully cold.”

“Mrs. McCall?” Stiles hedged, and the woman nodded, expression open and friendly.

She was a sweet woman, as warm as the fire crackling in front of her, and Stiles enjoyed the maternal air she had about her as he took the vacant seat across from her and allowed the heat of the flames to bring his stiff hands back to life. She had been the recipient of his letter when he had inquired about the vacancy at the mansion—butler to a Mr. Peter Hale, a prominent resident of the area—and her kind manner of writing matched well her physical appearance.

“Come now,” she said after he had warmed considerably. “I’ll show you to your room.”

Mrs. McCall led the way down the hall with bustling purpose, her familiarity with the house evident while Stiles trailed wonderingly behind her, still a tourist to the home’s depths. 

It was hard to imagine living here, being a permanent fixture among the furnishings. He felt like a voyeur in the halls, listening to the echoing murmurs of conversations that did not belong to him, surrounded by dark opulence that he had never known—the schooling institute, with its lifeless rooms and flat architecture, paled in comparison to the affluence that flourished within the dark walls here. Surely anyone who saw him in these rooms felt him to be an out-of-place imposter from his body language alone, which Stiles knew without witnessing it was an accurate meter of his own comfort, or lack thereof.

His own room was little different: it was a wide space, certainly bigger than what a servant required, and much too vast to be properly filled with the sparse number of possessions Stiles had with him. Even the bed seemed unfairly massive, made of an old creaking oak and covered in thick blankets.

“I will leave you to get settled,” said Mrs. McCall.

“Will I not be meeting the master tonight?”

“No, he is away on business,” she told him. “He is frequently so. You may not see him for another fortnight.”

She closed the door behind herself after dropping the candle she carried in hand off on the table adjacent to the bed. It cast a meek light on the large space, giving dim illumination, along with the gray moonlight, to little more than the ridges in the stone walls and the frayed edges of the bedsheets. The room did not shed warmth, not to Stiles’ body nor his soul, but he knew it must become home, and that necessity would make it such.

The travel had left him weary down to his bones, but he knew it would be unwise to retire without a scrap of food after a lengthy day with little but old bread to nourish himself with during breakfast. He unpacked a few garments from his luggage and stacked a handful of his books by the hearth, but sought out supper after accomplishing this, lacking the drive to organize his belongings any further at the moment. He wandered back downstairs, doing his best to retrace his steps in the shadows—nightfall had truly settled in and thrown a gloomy hush over the premises—and found the kitchen after trial and error. A plate of food was sitting out on a small wooden table tucked into the corner, one Stiles could only assume was for himself given how it was completely untouched and the rest of the staff had most likely finished dinner hours prior to now. He ate carefully, then ravenously, and was more than pleased by the state of the meal: the chunk of meat was well-cooked, the bread was fresh, and the potatoes ladled on the side were liberally buttered.

Upon completion of his meal, exhaustion claimed him, and he returned to his room to all but collapse on the bed. The lack of a swaying carriage, which had accompanied him for far too many prior hours, was much appreciated, the stillness his body could rest in providing an easy environment in which to sleep in, and within minutes, Stiles sank into slumber.

He awoke to a new day: sun was streaming into what had, the night before, seemed like a horribly dreary room, but was now dappled in daylight. He had little knowledge of just how long he had slept but was surprised to find that no one had knocked on his door to wake him; he suspected that policy would change the moment Mr. Hale appeared at the estate once more.

Mrs. McCall was in the hall, dusting, when Stiles emerged. She wished him a good morning and bustled up to him.

“A late riser, I see,” she murmured. She spoke aloud his own thoughts by adding, “I assumed you were weary from your travels, but once the master comes to town, he’ll disapprove of your habits.”

She most likely deemed him to still be something of an irresponsible youth, although she regarded him with fondness nonetheless—perhaps she was charmed by his bumbling nature. Stiles had the suspicion that Mr. Hale would not agree, once—if ever—he returned to Hale House.

Mrs. McCall set down her duster. “Let me show you around the mansion,” she offered, “and introduce you to some of the others.”

She took him down slippery steps of mahogany, into halls and corridors that seemed endless; it was clear that Hale House was much bigger than he had initially assumed. Bronze lampshades, clean glass, and carved oak banisters were only some of the marks of elegance that was spread throughout the home, and although it seemed much warmer in the morning light, a coldness still persevered in the stone fixtures and tall, angular ceilings and arches. The house possessed many rooms, half of which Stiles was not permitted entrance to, while other Mrs. McCall did not have the time to guide him through; she limited her tour to the library, the parlor, the wine cellar, the servant’s hall, the kitchen, and the grounds.

“It would take far too long to walk them on foot,” said Mrs. McCall as she led the way to the third story balcony that hung off the edge of an unoccupied guest room. From there, the view was sprawling, spectacular, and resplendent in the cool autumn air. Gnarled oak trees stood firm on the property, and further along, a cemetery occupied a small plot of land, but otherwise, only greenery was visible; no town or neighboring houses were in view, even in the distance. Hale House was truly secluded, surrounded by little but nature and swooping birds, perhaps by design.

“Are they a quiet folk, the Hales?” asked Stiles as his eyes swept over the horizon.

“They keep to themselves, surely,” said Mrs. McCall. “It is said, more often than not, that the Hales have been a violent group in their time.”

“Violent?”

Mrs. McCall seemed trapped between sadness and discomfort. She smoothed her hands down her plain dress. “They have had much to fight about,” she divulged, and said no more.

Upon returning inside the mansion, Mrs. McCall led Stiles down a hall adorned with grand paintings, all done by masterful hands. He stopped to consider them: one picture was of a stately gentleman donning a cuirass and a deep-set frown; he looked decidedly grim, eyes dark and imposing.

“Is that Mr. Hale?” asked Stiles.

Mrs. McCall stood beside him. “No. That man is his late father.”

“He looks very severe.”

“As is Mr. Hale, I must admit.”

Never before had Stiles been so intrigued about an unseen man; what a shame he had to wait another fortnight before he returned to Hale House. The stately house spoke of his character well enough already, as did the paintings of his ancestors and close relatives alike that hung in the halls, but still, Stiles struggled to piece together an image of the real man. When he had applied to the position of butler at Hale House, the advertisement spoke little of the employer, only that he was an influential man in the area of Beacon Hills. His influence was most visible, as was his affluence, but of anything else, Stiles knew not.

“What sort of man is he, Mr. Hale?” asked Stiles.

“As a master, he is strict and tediously meticulous, but he does not hover, keen on letting the staff work as efficiently as possible. As a man, it is hard to say—he is of the histrionic sort, but also quite surly. He is intelligent, surely, and spends many hours vexing his mind, but also tends to brood.”

“Why? He seems like a man who could want for nothing.”

“It is not my place to air Mr. Hale’s demons, and I can only advise that you avoid a line of questioning to this effect when you meet the man.”

They continued through the house, introducing Stiles to many other members of staff as they went: the cook, who was in the midst of washing vegetables in the kitchen, the gardener, who was seeing to the apple tree outside the kitchen window, and the maids, all of whom were busy preparing satchels of lavender to hang in the linen closet. It was as overwhelming as it was magnificent; never before had Stiles beheld a house so vast that the halls required modifiers: as it were, there was the east, west, and south hall, to say nothing of the multiple hallways that extended from them.

Mrs. McCall assigned Stiles his own duties after the introductions were finished. He was responsible for much around the house, from sorting mail to polishing footwear to greeting guests, and everything in between that went unseen to by the maids and Mrs. McCall. She was a patient and placid-tempered woman who explained everything kindly, in great detail, including her own duties as housekeeper, just so Stiles was well-versed in the workings of the home. His time at Hale House would not be incredibly easy, for the house required much maintenance, but he welcomed the change: at school, he was often not challenged and found the pace of the schoolwork horribly dull, but at Hale House, there would be few calm moments. He was equally prepared and apprehensive about the change in routine destined to befall him.

\--

A fortnight passed quickly. The house moved by its own speed of time; Stiles suspected the hustle of chore work made the hours pass inhumanly fast, for there never seemed to be enough minutes in the day to accomplish all he needed to. Hale House was large, insurmountably large, which meant that there was much to see to, and much to restore and scrub and polish.

He enjoyed his time in the mansion increasingly. The other servants were friendly and accomodating, and Stiles found that his faculties were roused by the chance of scene. The purpose he was granted at Hale House was gratifying, and as a result, he longed little for anything, but was rather thoroughly satisfied by the daily pace of life he had already quickly developed into.

The only hindrance he could not overcome was the ability to wind down after a long day’s work for sleep. He had always been a nervous child, fraught with overactive limbs and an overeager mind, and sleeping proved to be a trying task to attempt to hurdle for Stiles. Even with an adequate amount of sheets bracketing him from the cold and the gentle illumination of a candle flickering on the nightstand to shed light on a corner of the room, an eeriness still seemed to settle over and claim the Hale House for its own. Stiles reasoned that the rushing sound of the wind pressing against the walls was to blame, if not the unearthly glow of the moon. At daytime, the house was cool and foreboding in its vastness, but at night, it took on a state of its own, one most menacing—the shadows shook, the trees whispered warnings, and the halls were hushed into a deadly quiet. Stiles attempted to banish these thoughts, for he knew they were rooted in superstition rather than reason: in the two weeks he had resided here, he had perceived no real danger, and should give such creeping thoughts no real time.

An animalistic snarl roused Stiles suddenly from whatever state of half-sleep he had pulled himself into. The noise came from the window before darting away, the sounds scuffled, quick, primal, like a loose hound in the bushes. A cry was uttered—or rather, a howl—but it seemed far off, a distant threat. Had it happened at all? Or had it come from Stiles’ own imagination?

By morning he scarcely believed the night’s events to have been anything but a dream; the details did not liken to reality in the least when he reviewed them in the rational light of day. After dressing himself, he stopped by the window to seek signs of whatever wild animal he believed to have heard, and found no remaining clues: the surrounding trees looked undisturbed, the mansion wall itself was unscathed, and the leaves cluttering the ground made finding footsteps highly improbable.

It was a strange affair, but not an altogether impossible one: Stiles reasoned that, had he truly not dreamt the entire event, a raccoon or stray dog had likely scuttled by and roused him. Still, he relayed the tale to Mrs. McCall that morning as he settled in for breakfast.

“Wild animals?” she repeated, quite dumbfounded, before dismissing the claim entirely. “No, I cannot say I have ever heard such noises, and I don’t wish to either—never mind that now. Mr. Hale has returned from business.”

“Has he really?”

“He arrived last night, and is now sleeping off the pains of his arduous journey. He will come down and have you introduced later, perhaps in the evening. Make yourself smart, yes?”

Stiles considered his raiment; the clothes were not new or marks of wealth, but nearly the best he had—all that trumped them were garments meant for exceedingly elegant occasions, such as weddings. He colored, suddenly put off his breakfast. Would the master expel Stiles from his duties if he found his state of dress undesirable?

The cook lent Stiles pieces from his own closet; they were roughly the same size, and he was happy to groom Stiles into presentability. Stiles was distracted all day from his work by his escalating nerves and expectations, not to mention his fear of running into Mr. Hale prematurely while he was still in the midst of his errands. He had worked the man up in his mind as an imperial individual who held himself with great poise, perhaps a softer and kinder rendition of the man in the painting, Mr. Hale’s father, and was now utterly terrified of meeting the man himself. But all day long, he saw no glimpse and caught no whiff of the man, who seemed to stow himself away in his room, either out of exhaustion or want for privacy.

The chores took large chunks of time with them; it seemed as if within mere seconds from breakfast, evening had once again prevailed, and Stiles was hurrying upstairs to prepare himself. There was little that could be done with his hair, no matter how many times the cook ran a comb through the errant hairs—Stiles reasoned that he simply was not meant to exude elegance—but the borrowed garments did wonders in sprucing him up. By the time he headed downstairs, he was in what he presumed to be the most refined state he had ever been, and was hardly sure he could successfully pull off such a look.

“You look very polished,” said Mrs. McCall as she smoothed a lapel down with her thumb. “Go on.”

Mrs. McCall nudged him into the parlor. Adjacent to a tray of supper, liquor, and a waiting cigar, sat Mr. Hale, fingers drumming a tight pattern onto the velvet armrest. It was clear that the room had been prepared to his specific tastes: the fire crackled at precisely the right volume, the cutlery was arranged just so, and the plush armchair was tilted toward the hearth at the optimum angle. Stiles entered the room, catching his first glimpse of his new master.

Mr. Hale cut a figure as commanding as his estate did. His severe face, brows perpetually clinging together in constant criticism, and the grim line of his jaw did not paint a picture of a forgiving man brimming with warmth. If anything, he seemed to make the house colder, if not the other way around, even when the orange glow of the fire was licking up his side as he sat in the room with drink in hand. Dressed in sumptuous clothing of intimidating shades, he fit in most cleanly with the surroundings.

His eyes snapped up to where Stiles was standing in the doorway. Up until then, he seemed to have been surveying the room, as if analyzing the work that had gone into making it ready for his presence.

“Mr. Stilinski,” he said. “Be seated.”

He gestured to the chair facing his own, but his gaze did not waver from where it was boring into Stiles. The very intensity of his look felt as sharp as a piercing pain, and without making eye contact, Stiles knew that Mr. Hale was cataloguing every detail of Stiles’ form, starting at his head and wandering down to his calves. He still wasn’t done by the time Stiles sat down, but rather felt it necessary to start the entire process over again, irate eyes sweeping over his limbs with what Stiles was starting to think was a purposeful attempt to render Stiles uncomfortable. Stiles refused to give him the pleasure.

He concluded his scrutiny with a heavy sigh.

“The clocks are not wound correctly,” Mr. Hale finally spoke, voice even but unmistakably crisp on the edge of each word.

Stiles turned in his seat to glance at the clock on the wall behind himself. It was a large, antique piece, once Stiles had carefully fiddled with to wind properly early that day.

“You did not realize?” Mr. Hale pressed.

“No,” Stiles said, but then someone—Mrs. McCall, undoubtedly—cleared her throat from the hall, and Stiles amended his words. “No, sir.”

Mr. Hale caught the slip regardless, a subtle veneer of amusement sliding over his otherwise hardened gaze. “You’re a very poor butler, Mr. Stilinski,” he observed. “It is your duty to wind the clocks, surely you were told so upon arrival. What other responsibilities have you been foregoing?” Stiles opened his mouth but took too long to craft a response, the words startled out of him at Mr. Hale’s blunt nature, and Mr. Hale took this opportunity to cut right back in once more, letting out a pained exhale as he set down his glass. “If you’d like to continue your employment, I expect an increase in obedience.” Back to the appraising glances up and down Stiles’ body. “Do you have much experience in such matters?”

“Obedience?” Stiles repeated.

“Yes. Or were you a tumultuous child who insisted on having his way?” Mr. Hale’s mouth quirked up at the ends, but the resulting smile was lacking kindness, full instead of curiosity. Stiles imagined that he was creating the wildest of backstories in his head of Stiles’ history, ones that lent their way to his assumptions of him. “Were you unlistening to your superiors? Uncaring of your parents’ plight?”

Stiles didn’t see what the occasional sass he gave his teachers and caregivers had to do with anything, but he knew better than to challenge his master, especially knowing it was undoubtedly what Mr. Hale wanted. He drew his tongue far into his mouth and held back his rampant thoughts. At school, he had always suffered for any cheekiness that he dared to show, and was not interested in receiving a punishment.

“I had no parents growing up,” he said instead.

“Why is that?”

“My mother died ill when I was very young, and my father’s life was cut short due to his career.”

“What did he do?”

“He was a constable.” In his peripherals, Stiles noticed a shadow shifting in the hall. “Sir,” he added.

“And then what became of you?” Mr. Hale pressed. He seemed more entertained than he did interested, hand back on the stem of his copper drink once more.

“School, sir,” Stiles said. “I was sent off.”

Mr. Hale was silent; perhaps he was reworking his image of Stiles and removing the vestiges of the portrait of him he had so falsely put together in his mind. He tapped his fingertips against his drink, the sound drawing Stiles’ attention to how the contents glittered in the firelight. It looked of a fine brandy.

“What a tale of woe you possess, Mr. Stilinski,” Mr. Hale murmured.

“I disagree.”

“Oh?”

Stiles frowned, aware of how little he was putting himself in Mr. Hale’s good graces with his repeated dissenting. He wondered just how well his obstinate nature would fare here under the hands of a master, but felt that blind, passive agreement would lead him to far greater deceit and trouble than speaking out.

“I am no cautionary tale,” he insisted. The institute had not been kind to him, that much was unerringly true, but he did not see his past as a crutch, a tragedy to lay blame under. “I have no use for your pity.”

“You have a very blunt mouth,” Mr. Hale observed. “Pray, what other defects are you saddled with, Mr. Stilinski?”

“I dare say as many as you have, Mr. Hale.”

The words were out of him before he could restrain his own treacherous mouth, and he sat frozen still, waiting for the inevitable retaliation. A pregnant pause stretched out the moment until, unexpectedly, Mr. Hale let out a puff of an exhale, something that could have been diagnosed as faint laughter.

“A blunt mouth indeed,” said he, and he was smiling crookedly now. He would be handsome, Stiles begrudgingly allowed himself to accept, were he in more flattering light and not burdened with such a wretched cockiness that drained all the likability from him like a bath stopper. “Yes, it’s true that I, like the rest of my compatriots, have faults, although I see no reason to admit to them here and now. It is better to let you come to your own conclusions.”

“I already have,” Stiles confessed.

“By all means, do share.”

It felt inexplicably like a trap waiting to be toed, but Stiles’ scorching honesty was nearly as unrestrainable as his stubbornness, and he let himself entertain the unlikely prospect of Mr. Hale being in the interest of bettering himself based on Stiles’ critique.

“You are coarse,” Stiles said, looking nowhere but the pits of Mr. Hale’s eyes. “You pretend as if you own each room, and all the inhabitants within it.”

Mr. Hale drew his glass slowly up to his lips. “And handsome,” he began. “Do you think me handsome?”

“No,” Stiles lied.

“Your keen stare says differently.”

Stiles ached to come to his own defense and explain that it had been Mr. Hale who had been unable to wrench his calculating eyes away from Stiles nearly all evening long, not him, but kept his feelings locked safely away inside.

“It speaks of the opposite reason of which you suspect.”

“It is as if you are using a sharpened sword against me in combat,” Mr. Hale commented, his tone as dry as the liquor in his grip most presumably was. “Your quick wit suggests you are smarter than I originally assumed. You think me ugly?”

Mr. Hale’s penetrating gaze reminded Stiles of their status—specifically, of Stiles’ unequal rank to his. It occurred to him that his humor would perhaps not be tolerated for as long as he was assuming it would.

“True beauty lies on the inside, does it not?” Stiles said, edging toward safer territory.

“Wildly untrue,” Mr. Hale said. “Spare me the platitudes.”

“Fine. Then yes, I do, sir,” said Stiles.

Mr. Hale made no answering emotion evident, and then seemed to approach dry amusement. Another brief puff of air huffed from his nose, as if he was surprised by Stiles’ brashness, or perhaps his egregious lack of manners. He turned to the cigar laying by the brandy, lighting it and breathing a trail of bergamot incense into the air of the dark parlor.

“You’re a most curious man,” murmured Mr. Hale around the base of his cigar. “With a most curious name as well, as it so happens.”

“I don’t go by it.”

“Is that so?”

“Most people call me Stiles, a derivative from my last name.” He paused, and took care to deliberately meet Mr. Hale’s critical gaze. “My friends, that is.”

Mr. Hale huffed once more; smoke clouded from between his lips as he did. “And brazen, as well,” he said under his breath, nearly too inaudible for Stiles to hear. “Where on earth was such a name born?”

“At the orphanage, sir. Many of the others could not pronounce my Christian name.”

“And this did not bother you?”

“Quite the contrary. It was a friendly nickname that I endorsed more than I endured.”

“I see. And now you are here, to cater to my needs.”

“Yes.”

“You do not strike me as the type who takes well to… serving others.”

“Perhaps,” said Stiles. “But not all of us possess the luxury of choosing our professions, or having the money to not have to resort to working at all.”

“Indeed.” Were it not for his probing stare, Stiles would have assumed Mr. Hale to be growing bored of the conversation. His thumb ran up the length of his cigar as he considered Stiles, most likely internally mocking the state of his posture. “That’s enough for now,” said Mr. Hale, and his eyes finally turned away from Stiles, gazing instead into the fire, which had begun to wane; it was the signal that the conversation had drawn to a close. “Goodnight, Mr. Stilinski.”

The abrupt end of the discussion startled Stiles, but he assumed Mr. Hale to not be a man of patience, and hastened to rise, especially as Mrs. McCall appeared in the doorway, beckoning him forward.

“Goodnight, Mr. Hale,” said Stiles, although in truth, he did not wish the man a good night, or anything else good—in actuality, he found the man arrogant if not insufferable in his hauteur. There was a smugness that surrounded him like a cloud, one that certainly no lowly servant could ever hope to penetrate.

He left the room before his master could wave him out as one might shoo a disruptive fly, but could not contain the rolled eyes that he had suppressed during the majority of their meeting. Mrs. McCall caught the gesture, and although her pursed lips made it clear she did not approve of such open derision, she stayed silent.

“You mustn’t be so hard on him,” Mrs. McCall advised gently after Stiles took his leave; she had been waiting for him in the hall and followed him up to his room, and Stiles felt both touched and spied upon in equal measure. At present, she was folding Stiles’ nightshirt as if Stiles wasn’t intending on wearing it soon. “His disposition is well-deserved.”

“So it is _him_ with the tale of woe.”

“There have been many tragedies in his life,” she admitted. “He has suffered the loss of nearly every relative he has ever known.”

“By his own hand, I imagine.”

“A fire,” Mrs. McCall said, voice low, and her fingers gripped the fabric of Stiles’ shirt tightly. “It nearly purloined the house from him as well. Only his nephew survived.”

Stiles looked around the room, cold as ever, and tried to imagine it blanketed in bright flames, soot leaking out of the walls, smoke enveloping the tall ceilings in monstrous plumes. The house nearly seemed too sturdy to support such a tale. Perhaps it was a separate house, he considered, that was now little more than ash. The family, no doubt, was steeped in riches, and leveraged such riches to purchase as many properties as they desired.

“And it has made him grow cold and empty, I suppose,” Stiles said to the bed.

“It has,” Mrs. McCall said. “He is a difficult man, very cross and hard to please, but when one examines his history…”

“Surely it is a tall tale,” Stiles tried.

“Unfortunately not. If you are doubtful, the burn marks on the left hemisphere of Mr. Hale’s head tell the story on their own. They have healed tremendously, but the scar tissue has lingered nonetheless.”

“I had not noticed.”

“It’s easily sought out,” she said. “In better light, and with due discretion, look for it.”

Stiles told her he would; his curiosity all but demanded it. She quitted his room soon thereafter after having aided him in starting up a sturdy flame in the fireplace, leaving Stiles to sit alone with his thoughts. He felt oddly shaken, and was prepared to blame Mr. Hale. The man was intimidating, a trait he certainly knew of and used to his advantage, and seemed to fit seamlessly into such a dark, melancholy house with webbed corners and empty halls that erred on the side of sinister. Even its lavish furnishings were a match, for Mr. Hale clearly valued appearances above all else, aside from only perhaps displays of power and dominance; his immaculate grooming was proof of that.

Stiles could not foresee them getting along. Rather, he felt a tremulous relationship between them was on the rise that he could only pray would not affect his status of employment. Its pompous master aside, Stiles had begun to care for Hale House and its staff. Its winding hallways and endless corridors and many stories were no longer a hindrance to Stiles; instead, he enjoyed the complexity of the property, its uniqueness. To be forced to rid it when he had just begun to feel at home would be most unfortunate, and he therefore resolved to do his best to avoid ruffling the feathers of Mr. Hale at any given point in the future. He had possibly been too insubordinate with him tonight and would surely face the consequences of such brazen behavior soon.

In truth, he knew little of Mr. Hale’s true character, but felt he had gleaned plenty from their first interaction, enough so to govern his current opinion of the man. He resembled, in demeanor and stature both, the man in the oil painting in the hall—his father, if he recalled correctly—and bore the same stern eyes.

The consolation in the situation was that Stiles was confident that they would scarcely cross paths, and hardly interact on top of that. Mr. Hale did not seem to be the type of employer who took kindly to interspersing with the help, but rather maintaining a distance between himself and the lower class. Stiles was not averse to the idea, but rather encouraged it, for he could imagine no future in which he would yearn to spend time with such an enigmatic man.

\--

Mr. Hale made no effort to speak to Stiles the following day, even if he did watch him perform his duties as if he were a hawk-like bird of prey. Stiles took to butlering easily, but even so, the unrelenting gaze of his master was heavy and leaden at best as he felt it burn into his backside throughout the day. He wasn’t sure if Mr. Hale was holding back critique or compliments or neither, his expression too unreadable for Stiles to make much sense of it.

“Do you always take pleasure in observing the help as such, sir?” Stiles asked while polishing the shoes by the entryway.

“The help?” Mr. Hale repeated. “My, I had forgotten the salary.” Stiles had not, and did little to hide his derisive snort. “Does it unnerve you?”

“It does not calm me.”

“You must learn the strength to not be bothered,” he said, tone nearing lofty.

Stiles never, however, had the chance to seek out his scarred temple. Mr. Hale seemed to take care to only let his untouched side be seen, and had perfected such a dance of discretion long ago; not once did Stiles catch an errant glance of the cicatrized forehead Mrs. McCall had spoken of.

Not that he often had ample time to do such a thing. His duties had already had numerous before Mr. Hale’s arrival, but now that his master had returned home, they seemed tripled, if only because need for detail had become a coveted necessity under Mr. Hale’s watchful scrutinizing eyes. He had just mastered the clocks when Mr. Hale took issue with Stiles’ shoe polishing, and it was his folding of clothes that was up against fire next, and then the way he organized the wine cellar.

Mr. Hale, when not in his study to work or in the parlor to read, seemed to delight most in one singular pastime: criticizing every project, errand, or chore Stiles so much as exhaled onto.

“He’s a nightmare,” breathed Stiles to Mrs. McCall from the safety of the kitchen. “How on earth have you stayed under his employment for such an extended period of time?”

“He’s a strange man, but he has yet to treat me unfavorably,” said Mrs. McCall.

“Did you not claim that he does not hover over his employees?”

“I did; in truth, he has never done so for me or any of the others.”

“Then why is he taking such delight in tormenting me with his unwavering presence?”

“Tormenting?” laughed Mrs. McCall. “He may be trying to understand your character.”

“If that is his goal, conversation would achieve it swiftly.”

“He prefers to observe.”

“And listen,” said the crisp and rather sarcastic voice of Mr. Hale, proceeding from the kitchen doorway. Stiles turned; his humiliation—already habitual since Mr. Hale had arrived at the house—at being overheard was not spared. He was not certain if he was expected to apologize, but before he could, Mr. Hale spoke again, “Come, Mr. Stilinski. Let me speak to you.”

Stiles chanced a look at Mrs. McCall, but her expression revealed nothing of what his conversation with Mr. Hale would entail, if he was to be chastised or terminated or frightened into submission. His pride already flared at the idea of the last being his master's weapon of choice, and it occurred to him that his attitude was perhaps not ideal for that of a butler.

He followed Mr. Hale to the library. In a cabinet under the bookcases sat a decanter that he withdrew alongside two small glasses.

“Do you drink, Mr. Stilinski?”

“Not often.”

“Perhaps you should.” Mr. Hale put one glass in front of Stiles, half of it full of the golden brown liquid from the decanter—when held up to his nose, it was instantly assaulted by a sharp scent that stung. “It may relax you.”

Stiles looked down at the depths of the glass. It held about five mouthfuls, all of them more expensive than anything he had ever drunken. “I don’t need to relax.”

“Really,” came Mr. Hale’s flat response. “Just a sip then, perhaps?”

It felt unnervingly like a test. “Is that appropriate for the staff to do? To be inebriated while working?”

Mr. Hale huffed. Stiles’ ethics clearly did not impress him. “Inebriated! You genuine child.” He drank the contents of the glass himself, emptying it in a few quick swallows. “There. So you see it is not poisoned.”

“Poisoned?”

“Yes, I suspected you were thinking it, that I had lured you here to poison you for not handling the clocks properly,” said Mr. Hale, dryness heavy in his tone, and he poured the glass full again. “You are stupidly frightened of me.”

Stiles straightened instantly. “I’m not frightened,” he said.

“You need not to lie,” said Mr. Hale. He was a pompous man, one that always assumed himself to be correct, but Stiles found his bravado more irritating than impressive. “If you are not frightened, then what are you?”

Stiles was not sure a single word could sum up the emotions he held for the man in front of him. Were he honest, it would not be a compliment he bestowed upon Mr. Hale; as far as first impressions went, he had cast a negative burn into Stiles’ gallery of individuals, one populated with men far greater and kinder than the one who was now his employer.

His employer. He would do well to remember that, Stiles thought.

“Learning my place,” said Stiles in an effort to be diplomatic. “I’m still getting accustomed to Hale House. To my job.”

“You are no used to the rigor, perhaps."

"The rigor, yes." Stiles recalled all too vividly the labor that was expected of him at the school, and how frequently teachers who disliked his wit assigned him to arduous tasks around the institution. "But not the opulence. Or the civilities."

"Confound the civilities," said Mr. Hale. "The opulence, you will love soon enough. Every man finds himself charmed by Hale House sooner or later." He once more offered Stiles the glass. "It may relax your clenched jaw and tight chest. Let the air out now and then, Mr. Stilinski."

The breath he noticed he had been holding was indeed lodged in his chest, but he refused, on account of principle, to let it go. Mr. Hale's amusement only seemed to grow. Stiles took the glass, peered into it suspiciously, and considered it.

"Good lord!" said Mr. Hale in exasperation, at which point Stiles took a small sip. It burned down his throat, but did not serve to incapacitate him. He considered the expense of the liquor, and if Mr. Hale was the type of man who consumed anything below an outrageously extravagant price.

"No harm will reach you here at Hale House," said Mr. Hale. His eyes had a depth within them that was subject to change; an emotion touched them that Stiles could not identify. From this proximity, one he had not achieved previously, he could read many more expressions from his master's face. "And you are not in danger of termination just yet."

"Just yet?"

"Not for ignorance regarding clocks, anyway."

He was teasing. Stiles did not reach this conclusion until he noted the subtle curl of Mr. Hale's lip, after which he realized he was the brunt of a joke that Mr. Hale was seeking entertainment from.

"You may return to your duties," he said, stepping aside to replace the decanter within the cabinet. "Have a good day, Mr. Stilinski."

"And what am I to do with this, sir?" asked Stiles, raising the half-finished glass in his hand.

"Finish it, if it would calm you. An ape, I'm certain, could perform aspects of your job quite easily—the alcohol will be of no disturbance."

\--

It was difficult for Stiles to let sleep claim him during the nighttime, even in the cooling shadows that fell upon his quarters. His mind was occupied in the same manner it had been all day, with thoughts of Mr. Hale’s tumultuous purported past, of the scar that Mrs. McCall claimed to have seen etched onto his temple. Stiles had not stepped close enough to see the damage, but the idea of its presence alone was enough to unseat him.

It was well past midnight when Stiles gave up on slumber, sure that even if his body did succumb to it, he would find himself engulfed in nightmares that retold the tale of Mr. Hale’s fiery past. He threw the covers off himself and went downstairs in search of a distraction, choosing the kitchen in hopes that leftovers from dinner would still be sitting out. A spare piece of bread, perhaps, would appease Stiles’ body, along with a jug of milk or fresh water.

He was scarcely two steps into the kitchen, eyes still adjusting to the dim room, when a candle was thrust into his face.

Stiles cried out, none too elegantly, and caught himself on the edge of the rubbish bin; it shook dangerously under his grip, but did not tip. He dared to glance up at the perpetrator once his nerves allowed it, and it was Mr. Hale, clothed in little more than a dressing gown and a mug of tea steaming in hand, the gloomy illumination of the candle casting a shadowed yellow light on his nose.

“Mr. Stilinski,” he observed. “It is awfully late for you to be prowling about.”

“The same goes for you as well,” said Stiles before he could think better of the remark. “Why are you not asleep?”

Mr. Hale, as had started to become habit, seemed amused by Stiles’ lacking manners. He set the candle down on the counter and lifted his tea in answer. “A warm drink always soothes me before I retire for the night.”

It smelled of strong herbs and a hint of sweetness. Stiles nodded in understanding. “Pardon me for interrupting.”

“The kitchen is as much your space as it is mine,” Mr. Hale reasoned. “Would you like some as well?”

“Tea? Yes, I suppose so.”

The process of duplicating a cup was of little extra work for Mr. Hale; the teapot resting on the counter was still half-full with it. He poured Stiles a serving in a vacant mug and waited with expectant eyes for Stiles to sample it. He watched his movements carefully as Stiles lifted the drink to his lips and tasted, surprised by its pleasant notes of lavender and citrus.

“Good, is it not?” Mr. Hale boasted, as if he had grown and ground the tea leaves himself.

Stiles hummed his assent. The tea did soothe him, incidentally, pushing a warm calm through his bloodstream as he drank deeply. He hadn’t realized how cold he had become up until then.

When he looked up, Mr. Hale was watching him attentively as if transfixed by his movements. Stiles wished desperately that he could read the undercurrents of such a strong gaze, if he was afflicted with affection or intrigue or disapproval as he looked upon Stiles. From this distance, the candlelight hardly touched him anymore, and abruptly, Stiles remembered the scar. He seized the candle and held it close to Mr. Hale’s face, doing his best to appear as if he were doing little more than illuminating the small space between their chests.

Even in the little light, Stiles could make out the pale knotted embossing of matted flesh, rope-like in the way it stemmed outwards from Mr. Hale’s forehead down to the arch of his cheek. The wound had healed well, hardly noticeable to the untrained eye, but it still confirmed Mrs. McCall’s account of Mr. Hale’s violent backstory.

“Do you think me a fool, Mr. Stilinski?” Mr. Hale asked suddenly.

He jerked the candle aside. “Pardon?” Stiles asked.

“Subtlety is an art form you have yet to master, my boy,” he scolded. “After many years carrying it around, I am well aware when someone searches out my laceration.”

“Oh,” Stiles said into the air.

“Yes.” Mr. Hale stepped imperceptibly closer. “Mrs. McCall’s voice has the habit of carrying through the halls. I overheard her apology on account of my behavior to you quite clearly.”

Stiles stood still, unsure of what was expected of him, if his remorse was necessary or not.

“Go on, then.”

“Sir?”

“Ask what is haunting you so clearly,” Mr. Hale insisted. “If the story is true. If I really am a heartless, hardened beast with no family to speak of.”

A lump of coal, it seemed, had lodged its way into Stiles’ throat. He attempted to clear it. “Is it true?” he asked, figuring it best to simply do what Mr. Hale encouraged of him.

“Of course it is,” Mr. Hale said. He somehow managed to sound both proud and tired in the same breath. “How else could one explain away my cold demeanor, then?”

“You’re teasing me.”

“I am, and yet I am also not,” said Mr. Hale. “The fire did very much happen, and I remember it as if it were yesterday. Yes, I am indeed coarse and difficult, but I could be insurmountably worse to my subordinates after all the disaster I have trudged through. Have I sated your curiosity?”

Stiles found he rather had a dozen more questions than he had before at the ready, none of which he felt would be appropriate to ask, now in the solitude of night or any other occasion either. More than anything, he was bemused as to why Mr. Hale shared the story with him at all, considering its rather gruesome and intimate nature, what with how tightly aligned it was with Mr. Hale’s past. He was a servant, an inferior, and it did not feel necessary or usual to have been granted this window into Mr. Hale’s battlefield of a mind.

“Why have you told me this, sir?” he asked.

“You already knew, did you not?”

“I did.”

“Then I have revealed no mystery to you. Merely told the tale from my own perspective, as it should have been.”

“Are you chastising me for speaking of you with Mrs. McCall?”

He shook his head. “I hardly think it possible to stamp out my name from the mouths of my staff. It’s unavoidable that they should gossip of me, especially when one considers how unfailingly interesting a topic I am.”

“You seem certain of that.”

Mr. Hale smiled. “I am.” He drew his mug to his lips and drank the remnants of his tea before setting it down. “The night is not yet over. I would encourage you to rest. Your next day’s work will suffer if you do not.”

It was an art form, truly, to have the ability to show concern, judgment, and cheek all in the same breath. A hand found the small of Stiles’ back, guiding him gingerly toward the kitchen door, and Stiles allowed the gentle touch to lead him through the shadows his eyes were not yet fully adjusted to.

“I would advise you to finish the cup, and then sleep,” said Mr. Hale. “Who knows what lurks in these halls that might prey on unaccompanied wanderers.”

“Such as yourself, Mr. Hale?”

He expected a reprimanding for such a comment, but Mr. Hale merely laughed; the cloak of nighttime, apparently, allowed a more lenient version of himself to emerge compared to the man he was during daytime. His hand remained a warm pressure on Stiles’ spine as he led the pair of them outside the kitchen, cups still in hand.

“Goodnight, Mr. Stilinski,” said Mr. Hale. His voice had dropped to a whisper, and the hush of his words nearly tickled as he spoke them. “Sleep well.”

Stiles nodded; little else seemed capable of him, for words had dried up in his throat. There was something oddly affectionate in the exchange, perhaps bolstered by the quiet sanctum of night, and Stiles felt, as if palpably, some of his ire for Mr. Hale melt away.

He hastened upstairs. Even with the calming effects of the tea, his heart was too stimulated to allow for rest; the encounter left him strangely thrilled. Another hour passed before Stiles was able to sleep, and even then, when dragged deep into a universe of his own unconscious mind, he dreamt of a soft familiar voice, of moonlight on fair skin, of a curved, veined scar that was always out of reach.

\--

For all its glamour and showcase of great wealth, the Hale House was still an unnerving home lacking a great deal of warmth. Its master, being a cold man by nature, was likely responsible for draping such a mood over the house, although Stiles was beginning to see a crack in the cool mask of confidence his master wore as armor, and a fair bit of light shone in like gray rays in the early morning. He was a proud and sardonic man whose dark face spoke of many injustices he had most likely committed in his past, but he offsetted many of these traits with the fact that he was also humorous and knowledgeable, and that he had begun to warm toward Stiles. Stiles had done similarly toward him; indeed, his master was beginning to seem almost friendly, with an infectious grin when he chose to show it. It was a dangerous thought to even allow space in his body, but Stiles was helpless to the recognition of Mr. Hale’s finer points, no matter how often he reminded himself of the opposite as well.

For instance, Mr. Hale was still difficult to please, his fastidious love for detail a chore for everybody else, and he seemed to enjoy forcing the staff to redo their efforts on any task they had laboriously slaved over. Stiles had begun to hate his more menial duties out of repetition alone, whether it be dusting the shelves—“The books are still covered in a mustiness, clean then individually, Mr. Stilinski”—to polishing the silverware—“This spoon fails to sparkle with resplendence”—to washing and laying out his master’s clothes—“The wrinkles in these breeches could be seen from miles away.”

He welcomed the opportunity to change his routine whenever possible. Occasionally Mrs. McCall would send him on errands, typically to the garden to harvest fruit or to the courtyard to chop wood for the fireplaces, and Stiles always welcomed the diversity of scenery and the fresh air, the chance to take in the glory of the Hale House while admiring its shape against the sky rather than being closed inside its cool arching walls. He was accosted with such an opportunity by Mrs. McCall whilst cleaning the dining room table of loose crumbs, and she bustled toward him with a woven basket in her hand, requesting his assistance. The cook was ill, it seemed, and the pantry was dangerously low on essentials.

“Grab a horse and ride into town. There’s a market that can fully replenish our kitchen for the next fortnight,” she instructed, then pushed the basket into Stiles’ arms. It was adorned with a penned list of necessary items, which was in turn covered by all the silver coins required to finance them.

Mr. Hale caught him with the basket not half an hour later whilst Stiles was lacing his boots up. His eyes grazed over the empty basket at his side.

“It looks as if you are embarking on a journey,” he observed. “Or perhaps you are quitting the mansion out of boredom?”

“I’m filling in for our cook,” Stiles explained. “He’s taken ill and Mrs. McCall asked me to ride into town and collect ingredients.”

Immediately, Mr. Hale’s countenance sunk into a statue’s sternness, his disapproval palpable in his eyes.

“I forbid it,” he ordered. “You are to delegate the task to another and stay indoors until tomorrow’s daybreak.”

Stiles bristled at the command. He did well to know his place in the house, but still found it short of unendingly irritating to be fettered to the home as such. The orders made him feel less like a paid butler and more like an indentured servant meant to fulfill his master’s every whim, and to hear his chore—chore, no less, as it was no personal errand or languid nature that drove him to seek out nature—dismissed as if Mr. Hale feared he would fly off to never return like an anxious bird incited Stiles to cross his arms across his chest in a show of disobedience.

“The others are occupied,” Stiles informed him.

“Then the errand must wait,” Mr. Hale declared. “You must not be outdoors during nightfall. It is… most dangerous when one is not careful.”

His words rang as of speaking to a young child. He seemed convinced that Stiles was destined to injure himself on the property and that lack of daylight would only speed along the inevitable process, and even if he gave his order out of genuine concern for Stiles’ well-being, Stiles’ gratitude was nonexistent, pushed out of the way by his indignation at being spoken to like a small, reckless boy.

Mr. Hale seemed aware of Stiles’ annoyance if not his unspoken plan to completely disobey these regulations. He took one large step closer and regarded Stiles with dark, threatening eyes.

“I am speaking with the utmost seriousness,” he said. “If I catch you outdoors, your employment with me will be immediately severed.”

Stiles ground his teeth together as if wishing to form a powder with them. “You speak to me as if I am a child, sir.”

“You are.”

“I am not.”

“In relation to myself—my age, my experience, my wisdom—you most certainly are.” Mr. Hale drew himself up, shoulders now a wide line meant to intimidate Stiles into obedience. Stiles’ eyes once more flickered to the white scar that peppered down his temple. “You will stay indoors, and I will hear nothing more of it.”

He stalked away, not interested in any rebuttals Stiles had planned to strike against his commands.

Stiles, rebellious to a fault, had almost disobeyed and left Hale House despite his master’s clear orders to stay indoors. He had begun to suspect it all a strange abuse of power, or perhaps a test to Stiles’ loyalty, when night fell and, tucked into the warmth of his bed, nothing of any note seemed to occur outdoors.

He crept to the window, peering out into the black night; only the darker shapes of the trees stood out in the gloom as they swayed in the wind. All else was still.

The room was cold, however, and soon standing perched by the window chilled Stiles considerably, and he decided to tend to the fire, now little more than a gloomy sprig of dying amber light. He settled more kindling amidst the hot ash, waiting for the heat to light them before returning to bed, when a sound broke through the silence, rendering the tranquility of the night shattered. Stiles sat up in bed, groping for more light although his candle had long since been extinguished. The noise rang through the dark again; it seemed to originate from the outdoors, a fair distance outward into the rim of the trees. It was not a screech, nothing that could be blamed on a nocturnal bird. It was nearly howl-like, as if a wild dog had taken to the surrounding woods, and raised the fine hairs on Stiles’ neck. 

He explained it away at once as a trick of the mind, especially when no encore of the sound came. His nerves had almost settled once again when another howl pierced through the night, this one sounding alarmingly close—it was as if the noise had jumped from the space directly below Stiles’ window. Fright grew roots in Stiles as he once more tossed the covers aside and hastened toward the window, wetting his lips as anxiety spread over him. Was it a beast, descending upon the mansion? Should he alert the others?

Perhaps some of them would still be awake. The cook occasionally denied himself sleep if there were still dishes left to be cleaned, and Mrs. McCall often lost track of time when sewing in her favorite rocking chair in the drawing room. Stiles resolved to find them, given they were not yet retired to their rooms, and threw on his dressing gown.

It was best to be cautious, he told himself, struck with gallantry usually out of his reach. He listened at his door, finding it gravely silent, and then crept into the hall; it was bathed in darkness, as one would suspect. The mansion was unthinkingly quiet at night; Stiles suspected one a.m. at the earliest. The others were nowhere to be seen or heard, leaving Stiles to navigate the house alone. He grabbed a candle from the kitchen after he, gropingly, managed to safely walk the stairs.

He stood frozen each time another howl sounded; they were getting no less urgent in nature. Sleep was swiftly becoming a foreign concept to him, further and further out of reach, and he hastened to be prepared for whatever threat lurked among the trees. It reminded him, suddenly, of his first night at the mansion—how similar it was! He had nearly forgotten the encounter and written it off as the strength of his own imagination, but the noises now were unmistakable, and his frame of mind could not be dismissed as sleep-ridden or caught in the throes of a dream.

Further outward, as if it was perhaps creating distance between itself and the Hale House, another howl sounded. Stiles knew nothing of the current wolf population of the area, but knew that a pack gathering outside the estate was hardly a safe occurrence.

Was he the only one who had awakened at the animalistic noises? He walked through the first floor; his slippers were thin enough to keep his walking hushed as a cat’s, and found the entire house bathed in a quiet, unbroken serenity. The clock in the foyer struck three a.m., but aside from its ringing, no more noise disturbed the night, the howls silenced.

It felt suddenly quite foolish to be wandering the mansion at such an hour, and fatigue began to sweep in gently like a tide crawling over the beach. Stiles was just about to return to his bed and quit the ordeal of mousing around the castle when he heard the loud creak of the massive front door push open; the sound broke through the silent peace of the night and tore any renewed interest in slumber Stiles had away from his fingers. He stood, frozen, awaiting the sight of the intruder who was easing inside Hale House, finding it impossible to fling himself upstairs and lock the door to his chambers. Despite his uneasiness, he maintained a sense that it was not a criminal who was breaching the walls, and he was proven right when the familiar profile of Mr. Hale himself came into view of the moonlight.

He was dirty, as if he had spent hours acquainting himself with the dirtbeds out back, and looked weary. It wasn’t until the moonlight glinted on his cheek that Stiles took notice of a wet smear of crimson glistening on his face; he gulped down the dread that it was fresh blood, a thought made easier to believe by the fact that no cuts or lacerations seemed to marr the man’s face.

“Mr. Stilinski,” Mr. Hale said, as he seemed to take notice of Stiles’ presence immediately; clearly the shadows were not eclipsing him sufficiently. He seemed irritated, but a frantic energy lurked in the undercurrents. “Did I not give you specific instructions regarding whether or not you were to go outside today?”

“I did not go outside,” Stiles was quick to say, not interested in being chastised for a mistake he had not made. “I wandered the house; that was all.”

“Why are you not sleeping?”

“I couldn’t. The strangest of noises kept me alert.”

“What sort of noises?”

Stiles realized it would be difficult to describe them sanely. He groped the air aimlessly in an attempt to find the words. “I can hardly explain them, sir. It sounded as if a wild animal had been prowling around below my window.”

Mr. Hale stared at him for an unnervingly long time; perhaps he was considering the validity of Stiles’ statement, if not his likelihood to be a dishonest man. Stiles stood with his statement firmly: a boar or a tiger it may not have been, but it was possible that a rabid rodent had made the ruckus, after all.

“I can swear to you the safety of this great house and its grounds,” Mr. Hale assured him.

“Your appearance speaks of a different story.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“You are filthy, sir, and look as if you have just had a run-in with a vagrant.”

Mr. Hale glanced downward as if only now remembering his ragged appearance. “My only run-in was with nature herself,” said he, straightening his waistcoast. “Although I will not disagree, I am, indeed, filthy.”

“What caused such a dirtying?”

Mr. Hale did not answer at first, eyes glazed over with thoughts of elsewhere; when they once again snapped over to meet Stiles’, he seemed to have not heard the question at all.

“Come with me,” said Mr. Hale, cocking his head upstairs. “I will require assistance.”

“In what, sir?”

“Cleaning up my dismal appearance, of course.”

“Sir, it’s awfully late.”

“And yet you are still awake and roaming the house,” Mr. Hale said, with the air of a man finishing an argument. His eyes seemed a brighter blue tonight than they had ever been before; Stiles reasoned that they shone more in the moonlight than in the harsh rays of the sun. “And so, you will have the time to come and help your master.”

He began ascending the stairs, trusting Stiles to stand behind him. Stiles followed, hastening to keep up with Mr. Hale’s wide steps, and soon realized to where they were headed: Mr. Hale’s own bedroom, far at the end of the hall with a mighty door to distinguish it from the rest. He swung it open, the wood groaning in its age, and Stiles stood, uncertain, before it, waiting to be permitted to enter. Mr. Hale turned upon realizing Stiles’ footsteps had halted, and he raised one rakish, impatient eyebrow as Stiles peered beyond the doorway.

“I did not realize a formal printed invitation was necessary,” he said, sweeping his arm inwards as a gesture of summons. Stiles quickly crossed the threshold.

It was dim in the room, too dim to make out any of the furniture or the decor, but the moonlight gave sight to enough that Stiles could easily see the depth of the room and its large space, thrice the size of his own quarters. He was so distracted by the evident opulence—visible even in the shadows—that he failed to notice that his master was undressing, only rustle of cloth finally grabbing his attention and urging him to turn. The sight he then beheld was Mr. Hale, sans outerwear, working to unbutton his shirt; with every button undone, another sliver of skin was liberated, leaving Stiles to curse the nighttime and its missing illuminative properties.

“Sir,” began Stiles.

“Go and fetch a basin of water from the kitchen,” Mr. Hale instructed. “We’ll warm it over the fireplace here until it’s suitable enough for a bath.”

“You’re bathing?”

“It is the quickest way I know to take care of oneself after bemiring themselves.” At Stiles’ continued stillness, Mr. Hale waved him toward the door.

Stiles went back downstairs, feeling along the banister in the dark to avoid a stumble, and fetched the water. The mansion was still deserted; despite the commotion Mr. Hale and Stiles had made, all the staff were in their beds, presumably, and comfortably asleep, but their absence, coupled with the long shadows that stretched phantom-like over the floors, gave the quiet house an eerie air, one that was only bolstered by Mr. Hale’s sinister warning to remain indoors and now, his unorthodox behavior. Any noise that sounded while Stiles gathered the water spooked him—a creak of floorboards, soughing of wind, a hushed whisper. He could not be certain of the existence of any of the noises, for he was half-convinced that his own uneasiness had awakened them in his ears, but he hurried back upstairs nonetheless.

Mr. Hale was already dressed down by the time Stiles returned, standing disrobed in the moonlight. Its illumination was brighter tonight than usual—was it perhaps full moon?—and dappled in silvery glow, Mr. Hale seemed like a most unearthly creature, a shining beacon of temptation as he stood, as if he were a marbled masterpiece, by the window.

He spared a glance over his shoulder as Stiles’ unshod feet padded into the room, signaling his return. “Ah, you’ve retrieved the basin.”

Stiles nodded, and set about heating it up over the fire. He could only guess the hour at that point in time, although the unrelenting darkness of the sky spoke of the depths of the night, now undisturbed of any of the yowling Stiles had heard earlier. His own exhaustion gave no indicator of the time; running about and now witnessing his master’s naked frame rather woke him up quite firmly, his heart thundering a none-too-sleepy beat against his chest. He could not know for sure, but found it odd that Mr. Hale had recruited Stiles’ services at such a ghastly time of night, while the rest of the staff slept peacefully—was the chore a punishment for Stiles’ wandering of the mansion at such a late hour?

“Is this common of you, sir,” Stiles dared to ask while the water warmed, “to enlist your servants’ help when they ought to be resting?”

“Ah, but you were not resting, Mr. Stilinski—you were roaming the grounds as I expressly told you not to.”

“I was indoors,” insisted Stiles, petulant.

“No matter—you should have stayed safe in your own room.”

“Safe from what?”

Mr. Hale’s eyes met Stiles’ sharply, but said nothing, possibly not intending to. Stiles felt, precariously, as if he were sitting on the pin of something, but had trouble identifying the treasure of information he had so aptly found and addressed; he was frustratingly blind to it.

Instead of bothering with replies, Mr. Hale swiped a hand through the basin’s contents to test the temperature. “This will do,” he said, stepping back.

Stiles knew better than to pester. The night, he found, often lent itself to a raw openness that encouraged honesty that would cower in the light of day, but such a candid atmosphere did not reach Mr. Hale. The secrets he cradled were most coveted creatures, that was made clear, and Stiles was not deft enough of a wordsmith to peel the truth from his clutches.

He focused instead on the task at hand, filling the tub and grabbing the soap and ewer while Mr. Hale settled inside. The fire behind him gave far too much light to the scene, specifically Mr. Hale’s bare body, only some of it shielded by the film of soapy water. Stiles could no longer relate to his earlier damning of the blackness of nighttime; he wished now, his face awash with heat, that the room would be in pitch darkness while he saw after his very nude master.

He felt Mr. Hale’s eyes following him, but Stiles dared not to meet them. He focused solely on the water and the soap, the clinical act of using both to wipe away dirt from skin; he knew that if he gave into the itching temptation to return Mr. Hale’s gaze that questions would then abound, ones Stiles was eager to avoid.

However, they came regardless: within moments Mr. Hale had shifted in the tub, sending water rushing to and fro like a wave, and said, “You seem quite nervous, Mr. Stilinski.”

“I’m not, sir.”

“Is it the witching hour that leaves your nerves so affrighted?”

“I am not fearful of the dark, if that is the true nature of your query.”

“Then what frightens you so?”

“I am not frightened,” insisted Stiles.

Moonlight shone upon Mr. Hale’s mouth as it curved, quite pleased, upwardly. His arms stretched away from the water, encircling the rim of the tub. Water gleamed on his forearm, accentuating the curve of the muscle, and Stiles followed it, unwillingly, up to his shoulder and the expanse of his chest. Shame took possession of Stiles’ skin at such unabashed obling, spreading heat over his forehead—was his admiration of Mr. Hale’s form all but shouted from his reverent glances? He looked swiftly away.

“Then perhaps you are intrigued,” Mr. Hale supplied. “Or nervous?”

Stiles felt, quite nakedly, as if Mr. Hale was reading his mind—he knew of Stiles’ distress, to say nothing of the suppressed excitement that made itself known in his gut, at seeing his master in such a bare state. Stiles refused to feed his satisfaction at successfully bothering the help so very much—what an amusing game it must be for him! Stiles would rather avoid replying entirely.

“Are you going to reveal what filthied you so terribly?” asked he instead.

The diversion of the topic did not seem to starte Mr. Hale in the least. His head tipped back as he considered the question. “No,” he said. “But only because I am certain you do not truly want to know.”

His words had the opposite intention of what Mr. Hale had desired: Stiles’ interest in the matter was more piqued than ever. The best he could do was surmise a conclusion from the evidence he had been granted, most of which pointed to Mr. Hale having—and expecting—an altercation on his property in the dead of night, if not a thief or an unsavory criminal.

The strange howling he had heard so close to his window sprung back to the forefront mind. He considered asking exactly how safe Hale House was, but realized before the words reached his lips that such a query would most likely be seen as either cowardly or untrusting of his master’s ability to run his own house with any semblance of protection, and Mr. Hale was most surely a man who cared about such things. The broad spread of his neck and shoulders and decidedly dark gaze spoke of protection all on its own, to say nothing of the foreboding sharpness of the house with its gothic architecture, tall spires, and dark stone exterior. The two, Stiles once again noted—both the house and the owner—were subtle mirrors of one another, each carrying a grim exterior that could not begin to touch the hidden darkness that lurked within.

“Are there wolves in the area?” inquired Stiles.

Mr. Hale visibly stiffened. When he looked at Stiles once more, his gaze was probing. “Why do you ask?”

“Twice now here at Hale House, in the dead of night, I have heard the anguished cry of the wolf. It alarms me out of sleep each time.”

Mr. Hale seemed to take great care to consider the premise of his statement, so long so that Stiles began to suspect that he failed to believe Stiles was telling the truth—or, perhaps, was describing signs of his own lunacy. Hearing it spoken aloud did indeed bring a layer of incredulity to the claim, but Stiles remained steadfast in its honesty, prepared to defend it and himself if necessary.

“Yes, there are wolves in the area. Uncommonly large packs have formed here, but it is of no threat to any of us as residents,” he said, very steadily, as if conveying fact.

“How can you be certain? Are they not aggressive?”

“They will not bother us if we do not bother them,” promised Mr. Hale. “Although I strongly urge you to stay indoors at nighttime for this very reason—we are far too close to highly populated woods to not attract wild animals to the area.”

“Yet you remain an exception to the rule?”

Mr. Hale’s mouth was curved with a smile that spoke of more than what he was sharing aloud. “Let us just say that I am extraordinarily good at defending myself against predators.”

He did not elaborate. “You speak in enigmas,” huffed Stiles.

“What would you rather have me speak of?”

“Honesty would be a welcome change! Or your own self—what sort of man are you?”

“You want me to evaluate my own character?”

“Yes, I do.”

Mr. Hale moved about in the tub, stretching his legs out underneath the distortion of the water. Stiles took great care not to glance downward at what laid underneath it.

“It is a trap of a question: no matter my answer, you will find me either exceedingly modest to the point of deprecation, or much too arrogant and prideful of my own attributes,” he observed. “But if I am pushed, I would say that I am a sensible man with exceptional skills of perception and… wonderful taste in butlers.”

The compliment—if it was as much—did not register in Stiles’ mind until Mr. Hale began chuckling, as if he had laid down an ace and rendered Stiles mute. It was dangerous, Stiles thought, to be both so quick-witted and so slick with words, and he believed that many women would fawn over such a trait. It made him wonder why there was no Mrs. Hale, who most surely would be a fearsome thing to behold—even just as a figment, Stiles was easily able to picture fiery eyes, strings of pearl necklaces, and powdered wigs, for the woman who was to match with Mr. Hale would have to be an immensely smart individual with both great independence and great cunning.

“And you?”

“What?”

“What do you think of me?” asked Mr. Hale. “Aside from the fact that I am—how was it? Cold and empty?”

The phrase was familiar to Stiles, striking a chord in his memory; he had used the exact adjectives when describing Mr. Hale to Mrs. McCall upon first meeting the man. He colored upon being reminded now.

“Do not worry. I have no interest in punishing you, or in forcing you to retract your statement. Forgive me for wanting to see you embarrassed over such a description of your dear, dear master.”

Stiles would have rubbed his cheek as if to scrub away the pink heat there were both his hands not occupied in the bath. “Perhaps you are not as cold or empty as I had expected.”

“Am I warm and full?”

“That would be a leap indeed,” teased Stiles. “I believe you are a mystery, and I have yet to see the first layer.”

“Mystique can appear quite dashing on a man,” observed Mr. Hale. “Answer me this, my boy, exactly how many layers do you wish to peel away?”

Stiles considered the nude man in front of him, as bare as if he were newly birthed, and thought that he had already completed his fair share of peeling for the day. Would more be revealed, Stiles feared he would lose control of his motor senses.

“I suppose I simply value the truth in people,” he said. He watched, purposefully, the water and only the water. It had turned murky, a taupe film swirling through the water as the dirt was washed from Mr. Hale’s skin. “Would you even allow such a peeling, as you refer to it?”

“It depends on the peeler.”

The words tipped on Stiles’ tongue were promptly swallowed back; it seemed impertinent to assume that he would be allowed to question Mr. Hale further. Mrs. McCall had warned him of this very business, that it would be out of line for him to barrage his master with an inquisition that he had no right to pursue. It felt as if he were constantly reminding himself of the barriers between them, of the many differences that separated them.

Mr. Hale did not welcome the silence, however, as he briefly touched the edge of Stiles’ wrist and said, “Go, ask me what you’d like. Before you brim over with your thirst for gossip.”

Had it been written on paper, it surely would have sounded dismissive, but in Mr. Hale’s teasing, lilting tone, it was encouraging. Stiles drew his hands out of the water and set down the ewer.

“Why do you have no wife, sir?”

“Because, Mr. Stilinski,” said Mr. Hale. “I am waiting to be utterly entranced by my true companion. Anything less, and I will shackle myself to a lifetime of bore and insipidity.”

“Are your expectations too high?”

“Too high? My boy, there is no ceiling on happiness. You think I await perfection, that I had declined many respectable suitors—which I have, that much is true—but I embrace flaws, as long as they complement my own.”

“So it is not love you wait for?”

“Perhaps,” Mr. Hale agreed. “Do you now think me a sap? Or do you heartily agree?”

Stiles did not know what to think, much less what to say; he felt to agree would render him bare, as naked as Mr. Hale was before him now, and he did not long to be so emotionally stripped. He had never thought on the matter before. It seemed almost improbable, the concept that there was a being out there equally matched to him in spirit, kindness, humor, and soul—if they existed, Stiles was almost sure he did not possess enough luck to happen upon them and cross paths.

“You are fully clean now, I believe,” Stiles said, ignoring the question. He grabbed a towel from where he had hung it near the fireplace to catch warmth, and held it in front of the tub to allow Mr. Hale to step out and wrap himself in it.

Mr. Hale did not emerge at first; instead he languished in the tub for another minute before exhaling, as if deeply displeased—either by Stiles’ reticence to speak or by the end of his relaxing bath—and seized the towel.

“Thank you for your assistance, Mr. Stilinski,” said Mr. Hale after he had disposed of the towel and was covered by his dressing gown. “It was most appreciated. As was the conversation.”

“The feeling is mutual.”

Mr. Hale smiled; he seemed acutely aware of Stiles’ discomfort, of his wariness of the situation, of the heat that had taken hostage of his cheeks. “It is nearly four in the morning. Soon, the servants will wake—you ought to return to your bed.”

Stiles welcomed the chance to escape and process the events in his own room. “Goodnight, then.”

He turned to leave, but a firm hand on his shoulder stopped him. “Not as if we are mere strangers,” admonished Mr. Hale. “Properly, now.”

He held out a hand; it was ghostly pale in the moonlight. Stiles took it, uncaring of how the water had wrinkled both of their hands.

“Goodnight, Mr. Stilinski,” said Mr. Hale.

“Goodnight.”

Still, Mr. Hale did not release his hand. Whether he was savoring the moment or had forgotten that he had tethered Stiles to him as he had was a mystery Stiles had no answer to, until abruptly, he freed him and stepped back. Stiles found himself wishing, unexplainably, that he had not let go at all, but rather held on for the remainder of the rapidly shortening night, but could not say such a thing out loud, much less ask for it.

He returned to his room, which had become cold in his absence, and he burrowed deep into his sheets as he climbed into bed. His thoughts were thrown about his head as if blown through a tempestuous storm, and he was certain sleep would not find him tonight, but ultimately, it did, and his pounding heart was calmed as he slept.

\--

The following morning, what had occurred the night prior felt like little more than a fever dream, and Stiles acted as if it was so. He hastened down the steps to assist Mrs. McCall in preparing the dining table for breakfast and divulged nothing to her regarding his late night rendezvous with their master, choosing to keep the story to himself. It was as unbelievable as it was uninteresting, after all, to anyone but Stiles.

Underneath all the embarrassment at having seen his master in such an intimate state of undress, there was another set of thoughts, this one untouched by the shameful throb under his belt. He was still tantalized by the unsolved mystery that had arisen yesterday and how, upon being questioned, Mr. Hale had refused to put a tale to the dirt he was generously smeared in. He had looked, Stiles thought, as though he had recently had a physical quarrel in the garden, but Mr. Hale did not seem like the type to entertain such juvenile fighting. His refusal to share information regarding, unfortunately, only led Stiles to fill in the vacated blanks himself, which was mere speculation but the closest he had to fact.

He could not reason why he was so intrigued, so obsessed with revealing the secrecy that shrouded the house’s frequent idiosyncratic events, from the howls the seemed to besiege the mansion at odd times of night to Mr. Hale’s evasive behavior. It was a mystery, however, and one that begged to be solved, and Stiles found his thoughts consumed by it.

“You are ever so distracted,” commented Mrs. McCall as Stiles set about sorting the mail. She pulled the letters from him. “What has you so frazzled?”

Stiles shook his head. “I suppose I am deep in thoughts today.”

“Go clean out the fireplace in the parlor, then. It requires no thinking whatsoever.”

He followed her instructions, and set about dusting out the soot and ashes that had collected overnight in the fireplace. It was indeed a thoughtless job, one that could be done with a wandering mind, which very quickly resumed its post where it was laboring over the mysteries that Hale House, and its owner, were guarding. Had Stiles not been so flustered by the bath last night, perhaps he could have been firmer in his questions, but as it were, Mr. Hale’s glistening shoulders and bare body had been a most tremendous diversion.

And what a thought to harbor! Stiles roughly shook his head, as if to rid his head of it, but found the image entrained as if branded onto his skull: it was a blurred thing, a leap from reality, but the essence remained in all its damp, shining glory. Mr. Hale was not just blessed with pleasing lineaments, or excessive charm, but also a body that spoke of old, sensual art. Much like art, Stiles felt the overwhelming urge to touch, but knew such treasure was only to be seen, never more.

Even to allow such thoughts to take up space in his brain seemed unwise. He focused, wholeheartedly, on cleaning the filth in the hearth, and just as his attempts to dispel such wayward contemplations began to succeed—

“Mr. Stilinski,” said Mr. Hale over his shoulder; he seemed to take pleasure in Stiles’ answering jolt at his sudden presence behind him. “Are you aware that there is a lake on the property?”

Stiles immediately straightened, then eyed him dubiously, certain he was missing the most vital points of the matter. “I am not, sir.”

“Then you must see it. It is in its best bloom now; with the fall-time leaves nearby. Within weeks, the trees will lose all their color and the opportunity will be lost.”

“And what is the chore, sir?”

Mr. Hale looked puzzled. “Chore? There is no chore! Deep in the contrary, it is a pleasure, an afternoon to delight in.”

“And you wish me to accompany you?”

Mr. Hale shifted where he stood. Stiles’ slowness to comprehending the situation seemed to amuse and confuse him in equal measure. “Mr. Stilinski, have you recently suffered a blow to the head? The concept is not that difficult, surely,” said he. “Or perhaps you are merely afraid to be spending so much time with your employer?”

“I daresay that fear is lost once one sees their employers in the nude.”

“Good heavens,” he muttered. “That pluck, indeed, will bring you far in life. Or hold you back extraordinarily.”

Mr. Hale took the dustpan from Stiles’ hands, clapping the soot free in the fireplace before setting his cleaning supplies down. He was, as it seemed, entirely serious in his offer, and soon they were both dressed in coats and heading outside, all errands of the day forgotten. It was as if Mr. Hale had relieved him of his duties of the day, perhaps as a thank you for the service Stiles had performed for him the previous night, or as a precursor to severing Stiles’ employment entirely. Stiles was entirely unsure.

The walk to the lake was not long, but Mr. Hale extended it by refraining from walking with any semblance of speed; he seemed dedicated to the art of slow strolling to take in the bountiful nature. The wind whipped at his hair; Stiles looked upon him in furtive moments and felt, inexplicably, as if he were gazing at a Grecian statue, resplendent in its marble glory and licentious angles. The thought felt forbidden even when sitting unspoken in his head, for there was a weight underneath it that Stiles was eager to remain deaf to.

“How are you finding life at Hale House?” inquired Mr. Hale.

Stiles did not expect the question, and he fumbled for a proper answer. “There is much to do. And I am still baffled by its size; I am not used to it.”

“Its size? Ah, yes. Your modest childhood.” He arrested his step, drawing his eyes over the stretch of the mansion’s roof. “The house is something of a legacy all on its own,” he said. “My family has lived in it for generations.”

“You have not grown tired of it?”

“I suspect I will, to be frank. And here is the lake—spare it a few seconds of wonderment.”

Stiles turned to it. It was indeed a stunning display of nature: sunlight danced upon the shimmering water, red-dappled trees swayed behind the lake beds, birds flew overhead as a finishing touch to the entire scene that shone as if it were a painting. In the summer, he imagined that the nature would be at its peak, resplendent with opportunities to swim, sail, and bathe in the sun while dewy grass rested underfoot. Stiles turned and saw that they had left the mansion a fair ways back, its splendor no less grand with distance. They had receded into the portion of the property that was riddled with undergrowth, and Stiles’ thoughts once again drifted to the events of the previous night. Had the creature he had heard prowled along these very woodlands?

“You still refuse to tell me the true nature of your activities last night?” asked Stiles.

Mr. Hale’s expression did not even blink. He seemed to expect the question. “I believe it would be unwise.”

Stiles waited for a crack to appear in his sculpted face, but no hint of surrender flickered into being.

“Are you disappointed?” inquired Mr. Hale.

He was, slightly, but knew enough of manners to not voice such a feeling aloud. “You’re entitled to your secrets,” he said. He felt, with more conviction day after day, that Mr. Hale possessed many, possibly born of faults of morality, or repressed grief, or a natural darkness that manifested itself often in his rested lineaments.

“My secrets,” repeated Mr. Hale. He sounded caught somewhere between perceptive of what he spoke of and entertained by the version of himself Stiles was cobbling together.

His cheeks were starting to turn rosy under the effects of the cold wind, his nose as well. A strange urge possessed Stiles to reach up and touch that cool cheek, feel the prickle of rough facial hair underneath, bring warmth back to the surface. He stifled it.

Stiles reminded himself, as he frequently needed to as of late, of the divide between them, of their contrasting states of master and servant, of the lack of understanding that passed between them and could possibly never be breached. Their lives, like seeds in soil, had grown in the most opposite of directions, under different conditions, in varying pots. To entertain a thought of even something as benign as a cordial friendship forming between them felt colossally impossible, if not blindly optimistic to the point of stupidity.

“You are cold,” said Mr. Hale.

Stiles jerked around to face him. “No,” he said, did the chill had yet to settle in his bones. Right now he rather welcomed the brisk air. “I enjoy being outside.”

“Last night did not scare you away from exploring the grounds?”

If anything, it only served to intrigue him further. “No,” said Stiles. “I suppose I am curious to a fault.”

“Curious about many things, I take it.”

“Is it not human to be so?”

“Of course,” Mr. Hale agreed. “And dangerous.”

He turned to look back at Hale House’s battlements, and the angle allowed Stiles to once more see the gnarled scar crawling up his temple. He was not always a handsome man, but Stiles had found that, more and more, he was drawn to the interior as much as the exterior, if not more. Within his battered frame and scarred visage was a genial soul that Stiles ached to touch, to truly feel, as he doubted that it had been for many years.

“You sound like my father,” said Stiles; to say the words aloud felt like he was divulging a closely-held secret. “Concern was his constant driving emotion when it came to me. I was dreadfully nosy since I was a young boy.”

“Your father. The constable.”

“Yes. You remembered correctly.”

“He is no longer with us?”

Stiles nodded. His throat felt constricted, as it always did when the subject of his father arose, whom he missed so fiercely he frequently felt as if he were draped in an unshakable melancholy. “No,” he said.

“We have that in common, then,” said Mr. Hale.

The painting of the scowling man in the west hall came to mind. Stiles’ father was a sharp contrast to who resided in the picture—he was an intensely kind man who spent his life attempting to separate wrong from right to the best of his ability, which was a trait Stiles did his best to emulate. What could Mr. Hale’s childhood have been with a father who appeared so very grim when immortalized in paint and canvas?

“What sort of man was he, your father?”

Mr. Hale turned to him and contemplated the question. “Brutal about sums him up in a word,” he said. “My family has never been known for their great peace, that much is true.”

“Why not?”

“Perhaps it’s in our blood.”

“Yours as well?”

Mr. Hale paused. Stiles felt he may have embarrassed him with his question, forced him to delve into memories better left untouched, but Mr. Hale simply replied, “Yes, I suppose it is,” and sighed. “And one can’t change one’s blood, now can they?”

“That sounds quite like a handy excuse.”

“An excuse?”

“Yes, to keep you from becoming a better man. Why bother, because the inclinations are in your blood—it’s awfully lazy, I’d say.” Stiles sneaked a glance at Mr. Hale after realizing the impetuosity of his words, but the man seemed more startled at the bravery—or perhaps looseness—of Stiles’ tongue than he did insulted. “Is it possible you simply don’t want to be a better person?”

“It’s absolutely possible. It would be an awful lot of work to repair someone of my history, and my ethical standing.”

“Your ethical standing?”

“Yes. There are things I’ve done you know nothing of that I’m not entirely proud of,” admitted Mr. Hale.

“Well. Not being proud of them smells of progress, I’d say.”

“You may be right.” Mr. Hale paused, watching a bird flutter its wings over the lake’s rippling waters. “But I also may be too old to bother changing.”

Stiles considered his profile: the slight lines, the striking eyes, the strong line of his jaw. Aging had not touched him harshly, but rather gone on to accentuate his natural beauty, roughening it into a handsome scruff. “Seems like another excuse, sir,” said Stiles. “You are still plenty young.”

“Plenty young!” repeated Mr. Hale. “I was right to like you, I must say. My instincts are infallible.” His Hand flattened over Stiles’ back, and even through layers of thick fabric, Stiles felt the firmness of his touch. “Let us seek shelter once more before I turn you into an icicle, yes? Back inside we go.”

Stiles wanted to protest, mention that the hand on his backside was succeeding in keeping him searingly warm, but checked the words before he could speak them; they died on his tongue shortly thereafter.

They trekked back toward Hale House. Mr. Hale’s hand, broad and protective, did not leave Stiles’ spine as they walked.

\--

Winter was on its way; the briskness in the air made no empty threats about its arrival. Stiles savored the time he could spend outdoors before it would be too dreadfully cold to bear it, and took to exterior duties often when possible, whether it was tending to the garden or cleaning windblown dirt off of walkways.

Hale House was unexpectedly warm in its interior while the winds blustered about, and its exterior made for a pictorial sight when viewed from the comfort of a window: snow dusted from the roof and long, spidery branches shook off browned leaves against a stretched white canvas of a sky. The fireplaces were tended to tirelessly to combat the bitter cold that dared to seep through all cracks and nooks of the foundation, but Stiles enjoyed the solace that came with receding to the hushed world that existed outside the four protective wall sof the mansion, in the sensation of hard snow crisp beneath his boots.

“You are in too little of protection,” Mr. Hale proclaimed after finding Stiles outside early in the morning wrapped in little more than a thin cloak. “Why the devil are you never within the confines of the house these days? Mrs. McCall has started keeping the kettle at the ready all hours of night and day. Is it a cold death wish you have, Mr. Stilinski?”

“Nothing of the kind,” Stiles said. “I just appreciate the free air.”

Demonstrating, he drew in a deep breath, one that expanded and pleased his lungs. It seemed to do little to convince Mr. Hale of his claim.

“So it is the house, then,” he surmised with a heavy sigh. “You fear it, I suppose.”

Stiles uttered a laugh. Truth be told, he had found himself becoming shockingly at home in the estate over the last few weeks, even the dank and cold corners reaching out to him in ways he had not anticipated. His room had become something of a comfortable sanctuary, a part of the world that nurtured him, allowed him to rest and grow like no other home he’d ever had before did.

Before he could explain this, however, he took note of a rather grim expression drawn over Mr. Hale’s face. His eyes were cast over the top of the house, skirting suspiciously over the highest slopes of the roofs. He was staring almost warily, how one might regard a sleeping monster or a dragon, with equal parts caution and dread.

“Such a thing is easy to understand,” Mr. Hale murmured. “Houses have a way of holding more of a man’s secrets than perhaps even his head does.”

“You have many secrets then, sir?” Stiles teased.

Mr. Hale’s eyes suddenly whipped down to his. The light tone of Stiles’ voice seemed to have been lost on him. “Perhaps,” he said. “Although I’d rather hear of yours.”

“I have no secrets.”

“Unlikely,” Mr. Hale dismissed. “The rebel air you carry on your shoulders cannot have come without stories and secrets alike.”

Stiles drew up his shoulders. “I hardly think you deserve to hear them.”

Mr. Hale grinned. He seemed pleased by Stiles’ chase, the cat-and-mouse game he enjoyed partaking in with his master. “I can think of nothing truer,” he said. “Now take this.”

He began to shrug off his heavy coat, made of an expensive wool with a thickness that spoke of its quality, and before Stiles could protest, Mr. Hale was draping it over Stiles’ shoulders. Warmth and other distinct sensations bathed Stiles immediately.

“Sir,” Stiles started.

“I beg of you to close your mouth,” said Mr. Hale. “Did no one ever teach you manners in that sad youth of yours?”

Stiles felt his mouth twist with a mixture of exasperation and amusement. Perhaps it was the extra layers that were lifting his spirits enough to make him smile, for he feared to entertain the notion that it was Mr. Hale’s presence. The coat sat on his shoulders like an embrace, the emotion it evoked in him as worrying as it was unorthodox.

To say nothing of how Mr. Hale’s singular kindness, often exclusive just to Stiles, confused him. He could not understand its origin, its purpose, its sheer existence, although he had considered, on multiple occasions, that he was imagining the preferential treatment entirely out of a false notion of wishful thinking, of misplaced hope.

It was fruitless to fail to admit to himself that he had begun to enjoy his master’s company, his presence a cheering light that Stiles found himself eager to interact with, banter with, speak with, even about the most mundane topics. To hope for more, however, was even more fruitless, if not an immature desire; Stiles was grown enough to understand the systems that divided him from a man as well-connected, affluent, and powerful as Mr. Hale.

“You must cease spending so much time in the cold,” muttered Mr. Hale as he took in Stiles’ form, as if it were a trembling leaf half-frozen. “The winter here is not forgiving. It blankets the house, takes it hostage.”

“We've not yet reached such a dismal stage of winter.”

But Mr. Hale did not relent—within a week, Stiles came upon one of the servants knitting in the hall, and when asking what her project was, she replied that it was a scarf commissioned by Mr. Hale himself, a scarf that soon after found its way into Stiles’ quarters atop his wardrobe. It was followed by glove and a woolen hat, the hat not knitted but of a sturdy, expensive fabric that did not crease or wear away—it had clearly been a purchase Mr. Hale had made specially for Stiles’ sake, which sent a fresh surge of nervous waves aflutter in between Stiles’ ribs. All of the above came pinned with a note that read _must be worn outdoors in the winter months at all times_.

Most concerning in all of this was the epiphany that Mr. Hale was not as Stiles had originally assumed him to be. He was still not an open, empathic individual—rather, he tilted on the side of morose, dramatic, and lacked all sense of humility—but he was not the stilted iceman that he had seemed in the beginning. For all his vitriolic nature, Mr. Hale was a soothing presence to behold. He was a frequent reader and chess player, a man who loved to vex his own brain and others’ as well, and his quiet determination was a thing to admire from far off. There was a darkness there, something grim that lived behind his eyes, but Stiles thought little of it; there had never been a single being in Stiles’ life whom he had respected or loved who had never been touched by such a darkness. There were infinite pools of darkness in Mr. Hale, but Stiles could not guess them.

\--

Company came in the form of a letter arriving well into winter at Hale House. Stiles turned the envelope over in his palm with great curiosity before handing it to Mr. Hale, who seemed pleased but hardly surprised by the letter; the penmanship on it was clearly familiar to him.

“Go find Mrs. McCall and the cooks, my boy,” Mr. Hale said after unfolding the letter. “Inform them that I have guests en route to the estate.”

“For when?”

“They shall arrive within the week, I believe,” Mr. Hale said. “There is much to do to prepare for the arrival.”

And indeed, there was. Many rooms needed to be dusted and cleaned, to say nothing of the food that needed to be considered for such a large addition to the estate. Stiles was astounded; for a man with barely any living relatives and an extremely coarse nature, it seemed almost foolish to entertain the thought of him harboring friends and colleagues who thought well of him.

“He’s a talented host,” the cook informed Stiles while the pair of them worked on slicing meat and discarding the unsavory bits. “His parties have been numerous and notorious. Oh, to hear him sing in the parlor—”

“Who, Mr. Hale?” Stiles interrupted.

“Yes! You will hear his singing voice soon, once the guests beg him to show it off, which they surely will.”

The idea in of itself was mystifying. Mr. Hale was not the style of man to position himself as the center of the group, rather choosing to examine it from the shadows, make conjectures of it, ones that would then swiftly transform into judgments. 

“Who is coming, are you aware?”

“I have no confirmation. Although I suspect many of Mr. Hale’s usual guests will attend. The Argents down the road come to mind. Miss Kate Argent is a beautiful woman; rumors of her and our master's engagement have been fuel for the staff’s gossip for many months.”

The cook’s words sent a chill through Stiles for reasons he had trouble identifying. He could not map out the source of this unknown dismay, but only felt acutely aware of its bearing down on his stomach, sweeping all the appetite out of him. It was foolish. After all, Mr. Hale was surely on the lookout for a wife, a man of his years, and it seemed simple enough to imagine a companion by his side, but still the solid formation of such an idea felt increasingly wrong for Stiles to behold. It sat unpleasantly within him, and having no understanding of the darkened turn of his mood, he had no remedy for it.

“She is very handsome, then, Miss Argent?”

“Indeed. Always a lovely sight to behold. The last I saw her, she had ringlets that shined like caramel and was toting a fur shawl around her shoulders, the very picture of elegance. Oh, she is a wondrous woman.”

Stiles only nodded; he did not trust himself to comment aloud. He knew it was borne of irrationality for him to take a dislike to a woman he had yet to meet, but his feelings were not his to control, winged about freely. He wished he could locate the origin of such noxious thoughts, but found it difficult to isolate the origin of the matter, although it did seem to be related to Mr. Hale. The kindness he had shown Stiles as of late did not seem to extend to the rest of the staff, and the best explanation that Stiles could grasp regarding his spiked envy of Miss Argent was that it pained him to lose Mr. Hale’s attentive focus, his clever wit, his charming smile, and instead watch all of his best traits be concentrated elsewhere.

He had little time to labor over the concept, however, because he was almost always at work in the days before the visitors’ arrival. The stress even stretched to Mr. Hale, who spent most of his hours being pestered by the staff as to where to put which sheets and how many of what needed to be prepared, until it was possible to hear his exasperated shouting from nearly all halls of the estate. Stiles found him reading, a most sour expression stamped on his face, a few times, but did not approach him, for it seemed he valued the chance to sit in solitude undisturbed prior to the guests’ appearance.

It was strange to hear Hale House be full of brimming liveliness after being devoid of it for so long. The guests who streamed in—there being at least ten of them—made it such, bringing with them multiple carriages and tinkling laughter and piles of luggage—suitcases made one of the finest of pigskins—and it took Stiles a few hours to get accustomed to the sound of raucous giggling and chattering from below while he worked away upstairs, pulling fresh sheets over guest beds.

He thought of Mr. Hale in the fray, drawn out of his grimness with all this merriment, and felt a sting of something unmentionable charge at him. Perhaps it was simply too unheard of to imagine Mr. Hale laughing with the rest of them, genuine happiness resident on his face.

“I’ll look forward to an early night,” Stiles confessed to Mrs. McCall after polishing the last of the silverware for the evening’s meal. “They’re a noisy bunch.”

“Oh, you won’t be retiring early,” she told him. “You're expected in the drawing room.”

“Why would that be?”

“Our master has demanded it, and quite persistently at that,” Mrs. McCall explained. “It’s possible he thinks you might find the crowd charming.”

“Unlikely,” Stiles muttered. “I wouldn’t be surprised if his intention was to have his friends chuckle over me.”

“If you won’t come down of your own accord, he will fetch you himself.”

“Charming,” Stiles said.

“It would do you no harm to be in the presence of other vibrant young people,” Mrs. McCall recommended. She snatched the polishing rag out of Stiles’ hands. “As it is, you spend far too much time with cleaning materials.”

“They lack the judgment Mr. Hale and his illustrious guests most definitely will bestow upon me.”

He thought, desperately, of a wild and sudden illness that could excuse him from having to attend the gathering, certain that the manners and behaviors of the guests would be as atrocious as they were rehearsed. A man of his rank would hardly be required.

“I don’t recommend hiding away. The master will surely disapprove.”

“Why? Do you speak from experience?”

“No, but from lack of it. Mr. Hale has never once asked me to join his soirées.”

“Am I expected to be flattered?”

“I will not tell you what to feel, or what to expect,” said she, right before scooping up an armful of cleaned cutlery. The forks clanked together in her arms. “I will leave you to come to your own conclusions.”

She left, leaving Stiles to consider his predicament alone. It was not that he didn’t harbor curiosity over what sort of man Mr. Hale was around his guests, or who the guests even were—especially Kate Argent, who Stiles both wanted to see with his own eyes and never actually behold, the two emotions at war with each other—but he was acutely aware of a division between him and Mr. Hale’s visitors. They were not of the same cloth, or the same glen, or the same fortune, or even the same psyches; Stiles suspected they had little in common except Mr. Hale himself, and even there, their relationships with the man differed drastically.

Not to mention that he would be horribly outnumbered. Mr. Hale had at least a dozen guests staying at the mansion, none of who came from lowly backgrounds. Stiles doubted that any one of them could relate to Stiles’ life, whether it be his past or his current position at the house—if the other servants were jealous, they needed not to be, for Stiles envied their ability to remain in their own quarters tonight or among peers rather than attempting, foolishly, to rub elbows with the elite. What purpose could Mr. Hale possibly have for inviting Stiles into such an evening, unless he perceived it to be a great treat for Stiles to cherish?

He supposed he had no choice, however, and thus, Stiles thought grimly, was the life of a butler, consistently governed by those with greater authority than he, and so at nightfall, Stiles ceased his cleaning and returned to his room to smarten up. There was little to be done about his appearance, and his closet was too sparsely populated to offer many options in the way of elegant clothing, but Stiles relied on the notion that he would be paid very little attention, if any at all, and simply smoothed his hair back and brushed the worst of the crinkles out of his garments before heading downstairs.

The moment Stiles entered the parlor, his earlier assumption of Mr. Hale’s social ineptitude seemed to border on downright ludicrous: he was entertaining the group gaily, shining amid the center of the crowd as he spoke to many at once, and Stiles immediately reprimanded himself for believing that the stern way Mr. Hale treated his staff reflected his nature with friends. He was a charismatic thing to behold, goblet of wine in his left hand and a widely stretched smile on his mouth, revealing a grin that seemed so earnestly pleased that Stiles felt nearly windblown by the sight. He could hardly remember the version of himself that existed at the beginning of his time at the Hale House, the version that staunchly chose not to see any beauty in Mr. Hale at all. He had been blinding himself; it was obvious.

His thoughts were cut short by the sight of the rest of the party gathering in the room, particularly of Miss Argent, who stood unfailingly close to Mr. Hale with a purpose Stiles was hardly deaf to, her arm curled around the width of Mr. Hale’s arm and laugh made overly silver. She was nothing like the image Stiles had mentally fabricated of her. She was a thin woman graced with silky tresses that curled gently against her bosom and a smile that never quite reached her eyes. Even with all her artificial laughter as the room mingled amongst itself, she seemed colder than even Mr. Hale himself, drawn up very tightly. Her intention to impress had backfired on her; she was obviously hyper-aware of each move she made.

Suddenly, as if in a nightmare, each eye in the room turned to Stiles, abruptly made aware of his presence; someone had clearly announced his arrival. He felt horribly out of place under their skeptical gazes, all of them clearly expecting a man more charming and amenable to the eyes to appear before them, and in comparison to their jewel-adorned attire and luxurious appurtenances, Stiles was aware he seemed terribly like a filthy rat at a fine dinner party, both out of turn and out of style.

“Mr. Stilinski is my butler,” Mr. Hale said to a man on his left; it occurred to Stiles that he had most likely inquired while Stiles was too deep in his own virulent thoughts to truly hear him. “He performs everything from the mundane to the vital. The estate would be in shambles in his absence.”

Mr. Hale’s attempt to unexpectedly flatter him was quickly lost when Miss Argent spoke up. “Oh, refrain from boring us with such talk,” she requested. “How much do you pay him? Is he as incompetent as all his peers?”

She eyed Stiles as if she were appraising a lackluster dish, unimpressed with all its trimmings, and left Stiles feeling decidedly uncomfortable, even more so than when he had entered. He made the mental decision to abstain from attending any more of these soirées, even if he had been invited with the sole purpose of providing amusement for the guests, no matter how much Mr. Hale insisted.

“I’m sure he does a fine job,” another woman spoke up, this one substantially younger than Miss Argent. “Although it is hardly appropriate to discuss his merit while his ears stand before us.”

“Indeed,” Mr. Hale agreed. It bittered Stiles more than he cared to admit that he had not been the one to come to Stiles’ defense—it was looking, grimly, more and more like he had fully intended to entice Stiles into the room with the intention of sculpting him into a laughable talking point. The elbow he kept extended as a resting spot for Miss Argent’s hand only soured Stiles further.

“Surely Mrs. McCall is enough to keep the estate in order,” Miss Argent persisted.

“She welcomed the addition,” Mr. Hale said, and that was the extent of his testimony on Stiles’ behalf.

Stiles was aware of sundry looks boring into his backside, as if piercing through him, and he imagined them individually: the most charitable were pity, while the cruelest were sneers of derision. It turned Stiles’ flesh hot with ridicule, made him ache for the privacy of his own room, or perhaps even a quiet hall that didn’t feature murmured complaints about his handiwork around the house.

Stiles slipped from the room into the hall when a parlor game commenced, and instantaneously a combination of relief and disappointment overtook him, eager to no longer be under the harsh observations of the guests in the drawing room. The pitying looks from some of the younger members of the crowd were hardly better, but only made Stiles feel unfortunate and cold, even in a room as bathed in warmth as it was. The entire evening had been a glaring reminder of his place at the manor and little else, particularly of his humble rankings that could never dream to rise above the likes of a woman such as Miss Argent, and it occurred to Stiles none-too-bitingly that this could have easily been Mr. Hale’s true intent. Perhaps he had grown desperate for a way to remind Stiles of the statuses that parted them.

The thought only darkened Stiles’ mood, so much so that he was so enveloped in a rain cloud of his own indignant dismay that he was completely oblivious to the sounds of the door easing open behind him. When Stiles did catch on, it was too late to escape, for it was Mr. Hale stepping out into the hall, gaze solid on Stiles like a searchlight finding its treasure.

Stiles looked steadfastly away. Thoughts like that were dangerous to let fester, and after such an evening, he really should know better than to engage in such detrimental delusions.

“Stiles,” said Mr. Hale softly. It took a few moments for Stiles to realize that he had never heard anything but his given surname leave Mr. Hale’s lips before, up until now. “You did not have to leave our evening so soon.”

“I know that.”

“Then why did you?”

“I chose to, sir,” Stiles said.

“You weren’t enjoying yourself,” Mr. Hale observed.

“Is that a question?”

“No, not when I already know the answer.”

“Then why bother inquiring?”

Mr. Hale seemed trapped by these words, and he drew his lips into his mouth to elongate the moments between the asking and the answering, clearly displeased with confessing that he merely wanted to hear Stiles admit to his own discomfort. It had been obvious, Stiles was certain of that.

“And what do you think of Miss Kate Argent?”

Stiles pinned his teeth down on the inside of his cheeks, unwilling to let his truth slide out without tact; still, Mr. Hale zeroed in on the movement.

“I highly doubt my opinion has much worth to you.”

“I am asking for it, so I have demonstrated that it does. Now make it known.”

“She is unthinkingly cruel and ghastly,” Stiles said. He was not in the mood for favoring courtesy over honesty at present; after all, it was Mr. Hale who sought him out of his own volition and would have to make peace with Stiles’ bitter opinion if he so chose. “And worse than I expected. You two will make a fine match.”

“We will, you say?” Mr. Hale pressed. “You seem very certain of our upcoming nuptials.” One of his brows tweaked inward. “Worse than you expected. How much of her had you been expecting?”

“The staff mentioned her to me prior to her arrival,” Stiles explained. “Her beauty, I knew of.”

“They spoke of her beauty?”

“And your fondness for her,” he bit out.

A fraction of Mr. Hale’s face relaxed in comprehension, eyes no longer boring into Stiles’ as if to pull secrets out of them. What he understood, or how he was processing the information, Stiles knew not.

“I scarcely knew the staff were so intrigued by my romantic endeavors.”

“So it is true?” Stiles asked.

“Perhaps you ought to consult your colleagues,” Mr. Hale advised, almost coolly. “Since they know so much about the inner workings of my heart, after all.” He continued to study Stiles with a devotion that was crushingly intimate, as if he were examining Stiles’ soul, running his thumbs along the seams and the crevices to try and find Stiles’ weaknesses and most private thoughts. “Does it upset you to imagine me with a woman like Miss Argent?”

“So the staff’s murmurings are well-founded. You do intend to marry Miss Argent, then.”

Mr. Hale appeared to be erring on the side of frustration instead of the happy assent Stiles expected would react from his statement, and it only drove to mystify Stiles further. The man was an enigma, a multi-layered fruit of wild emotions and ineffable responses, and Stiles was more perplexed than ever.

“I welcome your opinion on the matter,” Mr. Hale said.

“On marrying Miss Argent?”

“Yes.”

Stiles molded himself into the face of a man deep in thought, even as he already knew firmly what his thoughts were, of his distaste for Miss Argent, undeniable beauty aside.

“Honestly, I beg you,” Mr. Hale drawled the moment Stiles opened his mouth to speak.

“She is crass and uninteresting. She cares of little but her own self. She is as gorgeous as she is uncaring, and I can tell easily that you do not hold any real love for her character.” Stiles’ eyes drew downcast, and while they were positioned as such, he thought over the mental picture of Mr. Hale and Miss Argent, of the handsome and enviable couple they would make. The image drew all his lingering happiness out of Stiles as if gravity itself was responsible.

“You speak harshly,” examined Mr. Hale. He did not appear to be chastising Stiles for his choice of words; perhaps he valued the open candor.

“You asked for honesty, sir.”

“And if she were to be head of this house beside myself?”

Stiles hardly dared to consider such a thought. He looked again downward, hopelessly attempting to find tactful words within himself to adequately respond to the hypothetical situation.

“To me, if you would, and not the flowers on the carpet,” Mr. Hale demanded suddenly, fingers tipping up Stiles’ defiant chin. His touch was disturbingly cool, almost soothing after his skin turned red hot from the embarrassment that struck him in the parlor. “Would you abandon your post?”

“I would consider it, sir.”

“You have no loyalty to me?”

“It is not infinite,” said Stiles.

It occurred to him that Mr. Hale’s gentle touch had yet to descend from his chin, where a thumb was still lightly brushing over his trembling jaw. Stiles knew not why he was trembling so to begin with; knowing that Mr. Hale could feel his shivers through his hands only added to his humiliation.

A sharp knock on the front door resounded loudly through the hall, pulling both of them free from the unwavering stare caught between them. The interruption seemed to sit uncomfortably with Mr. Hale, whose disposition went from irritated to acerbic, touching his hair with a jerk that undid his carefully coiffed front lock.

“Go, answer it,” he ordered, pointing at the door with eyes that would not meet Stiles’, too drawn up in annoyance to bother.

Stiles did not wish to pass him and do so; all his prior upset seemed to abruptly wither away under the iciness of Mr. Hale’s refusal to meet his gaze. A part of him longed—ached, really—to reach out and grab his stiff arm, stroke his elbow until the tension left his body, but Stiles fought back the urge despite its strength, knowing it to be a silly endeavor. He went to the door instead, as asked, and pulled it open just as another knock went through the wood.

On the threshold was a stranger who snow was gathering on with steady determination. He looked familiar, some of his physiognomy striking a cord of familiarity within Stiles—that strong jaw, for instance, which Stiles was certain he had seen before.

“Good evening,” Stiles said to the stranger. He offered a polite bow, one that was returned in little more than a sharp nod of the head.

“Is the master of the house here?” the man demanded. “I look for Peter Hale.”

“He is here, yes. What is your business with Mr. Hale?”

“I am his kin.”

“Mr. Hale has no kin.”

The man bristled, shifting his weight from foot to foot; it was possible that the frosty air was making him irritable, as the wind was quite harsh indeed.

“I am his only kin,” he amended. “I am his nephew, Derek Hale. See if my uncle is decent enough to meet with me.”

His desire to colloquise further was nonexistent; he looked stubbornly past Stiles into the halls of the house, waiting for him to do his behest. Stiles believed his story readily, his features shockingly similar to the elder Mr. Hale’s, but cared little for his attitude, and considered closing the door on him while he fetched Mr. Hale, but ultimately decided against the ill-mannered thought in a rare fit of maturity.

“Sir,” Stiles said upon finding Mr. Hale in much the same position he left him in in the hallway.

He turned around immediately. “Well?” he asked. “Who was at the door?”

“He claims to be your nephew, sir.”

Mr. Hale’s brow wrinkled. “And what does he desire?”

“He did not say, sir, only asked that I bring you to him.”

Mr. Hale sighed long-sufferingly at the prospect, but did not decline, opting instead to straighten his stance and head for the door with a renewed dominance in his step. Stiles lingered behind him, his butler duties for once pleasantly overlapping with his interest in eavesdropping.

Derek Hale was already past the threshold and brushing ice off his boots when Mr. Hale reached him. They both seemed equally thrilled to see each other, which Stiles found exceedingly odd, given the circumstances of being each other’s only living family after having lost so many of them in the terrible blaze.

“Nephew,” Mr. Hale announced, dryly, upon laying his gaze on the newcomer. “I scarcely believed it would really be you. To what do I owe the unexpected pleasure?”

“I heard you were entertaining, and figured now would be the ideal time to drop in.”

Mr. Hale’s countenance seemed to disagree. He did little to mask his sneer or the sigh that preceded his words. “It isn’t.”

“It never is,” the nephew observed. The frigid air between them was as much tangible as it was not, the open door welcoming in winter winds that, in only his indoor garments, cooled Stiles down to a shiver.

“You’ve come a long way,” Mr. Hale acquiesced. “Come in.”

The door was shut as the junior Mr. Hale stepped inside, carrying snow past the threshold with him. Stiles assumed that now, while the two men were ready to adjourn to the den for private discussions, was the best time to slip away and take his leave upstairs, but before he could facilitate his escape, Mr. Hale had him caught by the elbow.

“Mr. Stilinski,” he said. “Come again tomorrow to the parlor once everyone is arranged there.”

Stiles felt his spine stiffen at the mere suggestion. Did the man feel a twisted sense of accomplishment watching his servant be fettered to the complaints and insults of his various guests while they rattled their jewelry and took great care to not brush so much as a hem against Stiles’ frame, as if a mere touch would dirty their clothes? Stiles considered refusing and how such an audacity would be received.

“Why, sir?”

“I would like you to come sing a duet with me,” said Mr. Hale.

“Are you earnest, sir?” Stiles asked, still half-convinced he was the brunt of a cruel joke for the sake of the others’ laughter.

“Quite.”

“You are not exploiting me to make yourself seem ever the comedian?”

Mr. Hale’s lips quirked. He seemed amused by Stiles’ repartee, but his nephew took Stiles’ comments much more seriously. “It appears you know my uncle well,” he said. “Including his bitter habits to ridicule those he sees fit to prey upon.”

“Hush,” Mr. Hale interrupted sharply, and promptly, he and his nephew exchanged a war between the eyes. “Restrain yourself from tainting my reputation with my butler, who I assure you, I have extended nothing but the kindest graces to.”

Stiles, remembering the night he was admonished for his forgetfulness with the clocks, to say nothing of the frequent teasing wit bestowed upon him by his master, exposed the lie by allowing a smile to cross his lips. The younger Mr. Hale noticed it immediately and seemed to understand its whereabouts within moments, which made Stiles squirm where he stood, feeling uncomfortably as if he were sharing secrets with the man. He had the distinct impression that Mr. Hale would not take kindly to such a bond.

“Mr. Stilinski,” said his master. “Prepare the room at the end of the east hall for my nephew’s unexpected arrival. See that the bed is fresh, and then retire to your own.”

“All right, sir.”

Stiles made to leave; his exhaustion from having his duties doubled if not tripled with so many guests taking comfort in the house was weighing on him heavily, combing him toward sleep, and his fatigue was reducing Mr. Hale’s familial histrionics to little more than a story worth a dollop of gossip with Mrs. McCall in the morning. He turned, eager to leave the two men to their brisk receptions of each other, but was halted again when a hand enclosed around his wrist and held him bound to the conversation. Stiles glanced downward at his captured arm to name the perpetrator and found it to be none other than the elder Mr. Hale once more.

“Goodnight,” Mr. Hale said. His eyes dove into Stiles’ as if searching for something he dared not to currently ask for, the heat of it so strong it forced Stiles to look away and examine the wall. 

It left Stiles feeling peered into, as if his master were trying to make contact with his curtained soul, and Stiles found he could not maintain the gaze for longer than a few short seconds. The hand on his wrist slipped away.

“Goodnight,” he murmured to both men, and ran up the stairs in a hurry lest he accidentally say more.

\--

Mr. Derek Hale did not depart that night, for in the morning, Stiles found him in the dining room, being served a generous breakfast by Mrs. McCall. It surprised Stiles to see the man still be welcome in the house, for Mr. Hale’s reception of him had been little more than frosty mere hours ago, leaving Stiles to assume that Mr. Hale had considered himself duty-bound by way of blood to provide shelter to his relative.

Stiles did his best not to stare, but did so regardless while he dusted the windowsills and cleaned up his dishes. The junior Mr. Hale was a quiet sort; he sat like a statue with his eyes riveted grimly to the window most of the afternoon when he wasn’t absorbed in a book, but always with a deep knit between his strong eyebrows. He shared many features with his uncle, namely his dark look and severe demeanor, one he embodied even more so. His brooding silence seemed fraught with secrets, with hidden truths that Stiles was curious to know more of but knew would be impertinent to ask about. A family trait, perhaps.

Even stranger still, Stiles’ master did not appear nearly all day, instead tucked away in the privacy of his chambers; Stiles was convinced that this was a bid to not interact with his nephew. Stiles found himself missing his presence, specifically his teasingly derisive, offhand comments about Stiles’ housekeeping and handiwork. His guests were equally dismayed by Mr. Hale’s absence, spending their day roaming the grounds and filling their time with demanding elaborate meals, as no one was able to break the shield of disinterest covering the younger Mr. Hale, although many tried, such as Miss Argent, who seemed as coquettish with him as she did with his unawares uncle.

“Your uncle has excellent taste in houseguests, does he not?” Stiles dared to comment whilst he was rehanging freshly shaken curtains in the library, where Derek Hale sat in a shadowed corner.

Stiles registered the sound of a thick book being shut. “You dislike Miss Kate Argent?”

He sounded more curious than he did chideful; nevertheless, Stiles knew it would be awfully disrespectful of him to openly disparage a guest well above his social ranking.

“I hardly think I’m allowed an opinion over a guest invited in by my master,” said Stiles.

“Whether or not you are allowed does not stop a man from having one,” Mr. Hale said. “Verbalize it.”

“I dislike her, sir.”

He watched Mr. Hale’s face for a sign of displeasure, but it remained stone-like, unmoved. Finally, a sigh rippled through his hard visage. “I am in agreement,” he finally said. “I have mentioned it myself to my ornery uncle many times. He is deaf to my concerns, as always.”

“Is that the purpose of your visit, sir? To prevent their union?”

Mr. Hale grew silent; he seemed to be deeply steeped in a thought he wished not to share aloud. “Not quite,” he said. “What do you know of this union?”

“Very little.”

“Speak of the little you know.”

Stiles could not help the scoff of amusement that escaped him, as it had never been more clear the similarities the two Hale men shared: physical appearance aside, they both were demanding, blunt men who sought out swift answers but revealed little themselves. Stiles had spoken the truth to Mr. Hale; he did, in fact, know nothing but gossip regarding the state of his master’s potential wife, and he wondered just how crass it would be of him to share little more than the speculative rumblings that Stiles had acquired from the staff.

“If you mean to press me for the scandals, I’m afraid I’m not privy to them,” Stiles said. “I know nothing but what the rest of the staff can only guess over through observation.”

“Observation is a powerful tool.”

“Indeed,” Stiles agreed. “If you must know, then, I can hardly believe that my master is genuinely romantically inclined toward Miss Argent, no matter how contrastingly they behave to such a statement, even though in spirit, it would be easy to see them as a compatible pair.”

“How so?”

“They are both charming, cunning, and see no obstacle in the path to what they desire.”

At that, Mr. Hale hummed in what could have been his agreement, before rising to his feet and taking a large stride closer to where Stiles was dusting books. There was an intensity in his eyes that was entirely different than the one in his uncles’: it lacked the smug cleverness, replaced instead by a gripping determination accompanied by open distrust.

“And what is it you know of your master?” he inquired. “Beyond his surface abrasions.”

Just then, the library doors burst abruptly open, and on the other side stood the elder Mr. Hale, eyes accusatory as they took in the details of the tete-a-tete occurring in front of him.

“Stiles,” said he. “Come.” He lifted one hand, his movements curt as he beckoned Stiles to him. Annoyance seemed to be running through him.

Stiles approached him quickly. “What do you need, sir?”

Mr. Hale stole one last look at his nephew, still stood fixture-like by the corner, and seized Stiles by the wrist, the motion nearly proprietary in nature. “Come walk with me,” he said. “I require fresh air and would value the company you have to offer.”

He dragged Stiles, without acceptance to his invitation, out of the library and further out the door, where a chill had broken out over the grounds: shrubbery sat wilting under a crisp frost that stilled each leaf and stem. Mr. Hale, hands pushed deep into the pocket of his coat, set a strong pace as he began to make his way around the exterior of the house. His strides were long but seemed fraught with agitation, an obvious but unspoken issue sitting on his closed lips like a secret. The frustration humbled his face; gone was the youthful glow that came about from Mr. Hale’s bright smiles and cheeky laughter, replaced by an unattractive brooding.

“You might as well divulge what is troubling you,” Stiles said. “If your intention is to hide it, I have seen through your plan.”

“What did you converse about, you and my nephew?”

Stiles knew not where his impulse to lie came from, but it sat on his shoulders like a snake, urging him to say nothing that would further upset his already agitated master—as it were, his face was already creased with displeasure. Stiles imagined that he was picturing deeply intimate conversations, ones that were neither appropriate nor expected of two people who had known each other for so little a time, and such thoughts were responsible for the deeply upset creases in his forehead.

“We spoke of very little,” he said. “Save for our opinion of you, sir.”

Mr. Hale wheeled on him, alarmed. “Your opinion of me?”

“Yes, we spoke very dismally of you. Your arrogant nature and self-important demeanor were the primary targets of our discussion.”

“You little tyrant!”

Stiles could do little but chuckle; the enraged horror on Mr. Hale’s face was most entertaining.

“You must allow me to ask a question,” Stiles said, for the curiosity as to why Mr. Hale regarded his only living relative with such malice was clawing at him. “Why do you speak so coldly of your nephew?”

Mr. Hale’s lip curled as he exhaled a cool breath, clouds of warm breath escaping his teeth. He seemed instantly wearier. “The danger of our kin is that they know too much of us. They have seen more of our soul than most, perhaps because of the shared blood, which surely translates into shared thoughts at one point or another.”

“You speak in riddles, sir.”

“I believe I explained it quite clearly,” Mr. Hale disagreed. “Indeed, my nephew must seem like a taciturn but kind man to you. To me, however, he is another; he thinks little of my own well-being and prioritizes others frequently, despite our familial relations.”

“Have you wronged him?”

“Not terribly,” Mr. Hale said after a pause. “Through time, we all inevitably endanger the happiness of those we love. It is possible, of course, that my dear nephew has held onto these unfavorable memories more strongly than the good.”

“It is cruel of you to tease me thusly, mention _unfavorable memories_ but not expound upon them.”

“Your hunger to educate yourself on the blunders of my past is as probing as it is amusing, if not understandable above all else. The stories, I’m afraid, however, are hardly full of vulgar tales. Each is as uninteresting as the last.”

“Is your nephew under a greater liberty to reveal the stories?”

At this, Mr. Hale stopped abruptly, thought striking him frozen. “I must insist upon you, dear boy,” Mr. Hale instructed, his expression quite grave in its seriousness. “Do not speak to my nephew. He will do nothing but belittle my character; he has not a single well-meaning attribute to assign to me, despite my generosity with him after his parents passed.”

“Your generosity, sir?”

“Yes. I showed him great hospitality when he was left homeless, barren of family, and thoroughly frightened after the ordeal of the fire. He does a fine job pretending none of this occurred, but my memory does not fail me.”

He spoke with great degrees of iciness. Stiles thought of his own family, lost to him forevermore, and how little Mr. Hale cherished his own. His better traits, at the moment, were overcast with his prejudices and, Stiles couldn’t help but think, his naturally spoiled nature, and although he would have loved—given he was of the appropriate rank to do such a thing—to speak his thoughts aloud, he knew it to be insolent to start such a dialogue with Mr. Hale, especially when his mood was already as dark as it was. Instead, he drew his lips into his mouth, occupying them with something that wasn’t inflammatory speech.

Regardless of his efforts, however, Mr. Hale took note of his forced silence. “You wish to say something?” he prompted.

Given permission, Stiles did not hold his tongue any longer.

“The rest of your family is departed, are they not?”

Mr. Hale’s mouth twisted. “Yes.”

“Your nephew is your only remaining blood?”

“Yes.”

“Yet it pains you to treat him with respect and value his presence in your home.”

“You speak as an orphan.”

“Yes, I do. Perhaps that renders me biased, but only in the most beneficial ways, as I can supply my personal testimony: loss of family, as I’m sure you’re aware, scars horribly deep. As a man of already so many scars, is it inconceivable that you are merely afraid of acquiring more?”

“While I appreciate the attempt to unriddle the workings of my soul,” said Mr. Hale, “ours is a matter most complicated. Simple words of encouragement will not succeed to bandage all of our bruises.”

“And what, sir, if he had perished in the fire that claimed your other relatives?”

“I would mourn him.”

“Yet he lives now, and he must not be mourned. To treat him as the dead is a disservice to you both.”

“Whence comes this shrewdness?” demanded Mr. Hale. “You—” He stopped, touched his own mouth with a knuckle as if sealing unspoken words inside, and seemed to consider himself with the utmost scrutiny. “You surprise me anew every day. Tell me, when will the unexpected shocks cease to come?”

He spoke passionately, as if on the cusp of rage, but was smiling; it took Stiles a fair bit to note that the smile was purely for his benefit, and that it was birthed due to awe of Stiles’ character. A thrill of warmth tickled him.

“Never, sir,” Stiles teased. “I am a never-ending wonder.”

“And not short of modesty, I see.” A long, deep sigh escaped him. “Very well! I shall attempt to see past the bygones that have divided my nephew and myself and look to the future.”

The breeze drew the hair away from Mr. Hale’s face, leaving it unobscured and easily observed. It truly was a handsome face, from all angles, full of pleasing lineaments that Stiles yearned to brush his fingertips over, particularly the bits where his wintertime beard grew thick from his cheek. Already, Stiles was eager for springtime, and summertime, and the autumn yet again, for he would delight in seeing his master grow with the seasons. The warmth of such a thought sat deep within him like a freshly drunken cup of hot tea.

“I feel compelled to say that I take great pleasure in these walks of ours,” said he. “My chest always feels remarkably lighter at the point of conclusion.”

“The feeling is heartily returned.”

“It will be difficult indeed once I marry and you shall no longer be my confidant.” Mr. Hale drew a deep sigh inward. “I will miss these strolls immensely.”

Stiles felt briefly stabbed; it had not occurred to him until now that the dynamics he and his master had become comfortable with would be subject to change once Mr. Hale took a wife. A pain wracked him at the idea, at what would surely be a loss of belonging after Mr. Hale’s wedding, and the resounding knowledge that leaving Hale House would be his only choice lest he be interested in the masochistic torture that would come with watching the man he cared for oh so deeply caress and love and wed another. The loss already seemed to penetrate him, even as premature as it was, and the disappointment was not easily concealed from his features.

“Once you marry,” Stiles said once more, testing the words in his mouth. They tasted absinthal, pungent in a way that only the most painful of statements could. “I hadn’t realized the prospect was so close.”

“Perhaps.” Mr. Hale’s eyes glazed as he stared out at the horizon; a deep rumination had usurped his thoughts and furrowed his brow. Long moments passed before he turned to Stiles, remembering their conversation. “You will still come to the parlor as requested tonight, yes?” he pressed.

“Only if you insist.”

“I do.”

Stiles shook his head; the prospect daunted him, for he feared a repeat of the previous evening would be the inevitable outcome. “Your guests do not desire my presence.”

Mr. Hale made an aborted noise—an angry, frustrated thing—and grabbed Stiles’ shoulder. “I do,” he growled. “If they are bothered, it does not bother me.”

The intensity of his gaze seemed to give truth to his words. Stiles nearly balked underneath its power, but was too distracted by the heat that bloomed under his skin at such passionate words. “Why, sir?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why on earth do you want me there?”

“Because,” began Mr. Hale. “Your presence—” At this point he paused, as if to collect himself, or perhaps cautiously choose his words. “It relaxes me greatly.”

It was a solid reason, not the selfish explanation Stiles had expected, one that touched him more than it should have, or indeed had any right to. Mr. Hale was a wordsmith, Stiles thought, who had the power to wield his vocabulary like a weapon, both to persuade and annihilate. And charm, he added reluctantly.

“All right, sir,” he agreed. “But I will not stay long.”

\--

Stiles did not risk Mr. Hale’s disapproval by refusing to appear in the parlor that night. He felt, however, woefully underdressed as he attempted to prepare for the evening; it was as if he were a mere house cat attempting to pass as a majestic tiger, but lacked the bravado to pull off such a facade. He knew that Mr. Hale’s guests, much like the day prior, were below in fine clothing and radiating glamour from their jewels and velvet garments—he himself lacked the luxurious raiment that would allow him to blend in with the congregated wealth gathered downstairs.

He descended the stairs none too enthusiastically; reluctance colored his every step instead. He slipped into the room, drew no attention from any of the guests, who most likely presumed him to be little more than the butler arranging trays or providing libations, and took a seat. He sat mainly forgotten—possibly ignored—by the window, doing his best to appear occupied and uninterested, more of a plant only wafting in the breeze than a lively partygoer. It worked splendidly until the doors creaked open and Mr. Hale walked in, and just as everyone else’s, Stiles’ eyes were immediately magnetized to the man’s entrance. He was dressed in some of his best attire—a black suit that was well-tailored to his form—and was being trailed by the man Stiles now easily recognized to be his nephew. He still sported the same severe brow, however, yesterday’s inclement weather apparently not the reason for his dour demeanor the night prior.

Stiles was steadfastly praying that Mr. Hale had forgotten the behest he had made the night before, but almost instantly, his eyes found Stiles, dark and full of intent, and he strode to the piano, eager to secure Stiles as his musical companion lest he try to make a sly escape. Stiles had certainly planned on it, and he had predicted that the attempt to depart would not be thwarted once the occupants were distracted with wine and other libations, too occupied mingling amongst themselves, but he had failed to factor in the obstinance of Mr. Hale’s character.

He opted not to silently beckon Stiles to him across the room. Instead he did so loudly as he seated himself behind the massive piano, requesting that Stiles join him.

“Come sing a merry tune for me, my—Mr. Stilinski,” said he.

The volume he spoke with succeeded in grabbing everyone’s attention, and ere long, Stiles became little more than an attraction to gawk at; it very obviously shocked all the partygoers that Mr. Hale was inviting him to partake in the enjoyment of the evening, let alone addressing him at all.

“I am not well-versed in that many songs,” Stiles said in a last-resort effort to protest.

Mr. Hale remained undeterred. He firmly patted the free space next to him on the piano bench.

“I do not ask it, I demand it,” said he, and indeed, he did not lower the fervor of his look, eyes alight, until Stiles obliged and sat by him. He then leaned in, voice lowered to a private hush, and murmured in Stiles’ ear, “Don’t feel overly conscious of your talents. My singing skills are no doubt far superior; no one will be paying any mind to yours.”

His confidence drew bubbling laughter out of Stiles. “Then I hardly understand why I need to be here, sir,” he said. “Unless it is to heighten your talent by ways of comparing it to mine to draw a laugh out of your guests.”

“No, I’m afraid this is entirely for my benefit,” Mr. Hale confessed. “I am very curious about what your voice will sound like when suspended in song, so close to my ear, so close to my soul.”

“If that is true, then we hardly require the audience.”

“They frighten you,” Mr. Hale observed. “If it pleases you, we could repeat this symphony again privately later in my chambers.”

“I’d rather not do it all.”

“A nonexistent option. Shall we?”

He dragged his hands down the piano keys, playing a ladder of notes to once more secure the attention of his audience. Stiles did his best to drown out their titters of interest, certain that they were speaking ill of him at this very moment, and tried to think back to what he had learned of musical merit while at school. There had been a piano in a room down the hall that no one had touched, for it had been a monstrous and dusty old thing that many children were convinced held the spirit of a retired teacher. Mr. Hale’s piano was not old nor dusty, it rather seemed painstakingly cleaned, so much so that even the keys shone, and the mere idea of touching it seemed daunting.

Mr. Hale started singing, and with it, his fingers moved elegantly down the piano. It took Stiles a few bars to recognize the tune, then realized it was a Christmas carol that he knew quite well, as did the others: all of them broke out into pleased smiles and seemed prepared to sing along. They did not, however, as a moment later, Mr. Hale’s voice broke out and filled the room with the strength and resonance of a church bell. It was a mighty sound, just as the staff had informed Stiles of, a deep bass voice that both calmed and titillated its listeners. Stiles was deeply wrapped up in it, so much so that he was entirely silent when the piano climbed into the song’s second verse even though Mr. Hale stared at him with the expectancy of Stiles joining in. His raptness broke only when Mr. Hale deliberately slowed his touch on the piano, dragging out the notes in the hope that Stiles would leap into the lyrics.

He did eventually, although the resulting sound was terrible and not at all up to par with his singing compatriot’s. Stiles felt nearly embarrassed just to be sitting on the bench with Mr. Hale at that moment as if he were his musical equal, his voice continuously unaware of tempo, balance, and key. Not even when Mr. Hale rejoined him for the chorus did he improve; as a medley, their voices seemed dreadfully mismatched, if not comically so, and they managed to turn the song into less of a sentimental message and more of a comedic act, their audience nearly in tears of mirth at their ghastly harmonies.

“Another!” Mr. Hale announced as the song came to an end.

On impulse, Stiles laid a quelling hand on the back of Mr. Hale’s palm before he could start up a new tune. “I believe your voice will suffice on its own,” he assured him.

“Oh, the sound of it is inconsequential,” said Mr. Hale. “My guests are already well-familiar with my musical talents. They deserve to laugh for once.”

“So that is my purpose? To be good for a hearty laugh?”

Underneath the piano, Mr. Hale’s hand found Stiles’ knee, and the light grip he maintained on it was dizzying, rendering Stiles unable to concentrate. He was smiling as if he was quite pleased with himself, and whether it was his melodic singing voice or his ability to unravel Stiles’ composure, it was broadly portrayed on his face for all to see.

“That, and so much more,” he told Stiles.

The earnest intensity of his voice was jarring to Stiles, the honesty of which he spoke with burning in Stiles’ ears. He felt suddenly pained by the chair, by the intimacy he was bound to Mr. Hale by as they stayed pressed together from shoulder to knee, by the crowd that was watching them interact and pleading for more music. He shot to his feet like an arrow.

“I believe my portion of the evening’s entertainment has died as quickly as it has been born,” Stiles said hastily. “I should return to my duties.”

He slid out from behind the piano, refusing all the while to look Mr. Hale in the eye; it felt like an agonizing prospect to glance at him and be able to read his emotions, or in turn, Mr. Hale would be able to read Stiles’. He wished no longer to take part in the humiliation, for as enjoyable as it had been for a few minutes, the people’s laughter suddenly sounded jeering, taunting, terrible, as if they all knew his secret and found it laughable. He wanted to give none of them the satisfaction of knowing that they were right, that Stiles was rendered hopelessly captivated by his much wealthier, more popular, and higher ranking master.

He nearly ran from the room, certain that the jolly party within would not miss his presence and eager to see to his emotions in the dignity of his own privacy, but he had scarcely made it to the staircase and blinked back tears when his name was softly called in the hallway outside the sitting room. Stiles stifled the paroxysm that was welling up inside his chest and turned to the voice, surprised to find that it belonged to Derek Hale, who was standing in the shadows as if he were an eavesdropping sculpture. 

“Are you all right?” he inquired.

“Quite,” Stiles responded; he did not trust his voice to say more without giving the lie to his forced composure.

“My uncle has always been keenly lucky in securing staff that is… too good in heart for him,” Mr. Hale observed. He took a small step closer to Stiles. “I believe it will fall on deaf ears, but I urge you to consider caution before all else and sever ties with him.”

The advice, even with the knowledge that the relationship between uncle and nephew was most severe, still startled Stiles immensely. “Is it distaste for myself or distrust of your uncle that promotes such words?” asked Stiles.

“Neither. Just be aware of this: I have seen all the pieces of this puzzle; you have but seen a few. One cannot solve the enigma with only a handful of pieces.”

“Unless you are offering to reveal the knowledge you believe you hold but I do not, this discussion seems fruitless.”

“Forgive my bluntness,” said Mr. Hale, “but I have observed that you seem quite fond of my uncle. Would it be fair to describe your feelings for him as such?”

His words only served to inject an embarrassed heat inside of Stiles that forced him to turn away from Mr. Hale’s gaze. His eyes were as direct as his uncle’s and carried much the same perceptive gleam, his perception only magnified when it was made clear that through study, he was able to identify Stiles’ extraneous feelings toward his master. Stiles abhorred that they shone through him so easily; who else was able to take notice of his affections? It was perhaps his worst fear to be thus read, and so thoroughly at that.

“I am fond of him, yes,” admitted Stiles in a soft voice. He spoke mostly to the carpet, to the detailed needlework, to the knitted curves of the flowers depicted upon the rugs. It reminded him that he had been in a decidedly similar position yesterday, except it had been the elder Mr. Hale speaking with him, holding his chin delicately. “He has been generous with me, and I am grateful for the friend he has become alongside the master he is.”

“And what do you suppose feeds this wellspring of kindness that my uncle unrolls in front of you, and exclusively you?”

“I am sure he shows equal kindness to other staff members.”

“No, he does not,” said Mr. Hale sharply. His tone brooked no argument. “Or did you take note of any other members of staff carousing in the party alongside you?”

No, Stiles had not, but had thought nothing of it. It was true that Mr. Hale had shown him preferential kindness and great generosity, which was most likely balanced out by severity to others of Stiles’ rank, but to make assumptions off such benevolence seemed little better than arrogant presumption.

“If he has been generous with me,” said Stiles, “I am grateful for the philanthropy.”

A noise of great impatience left Mr. Hale’s lips. “I am uninterested in your gratitude,” he said. “Can you truly not tell? I am here to issue a warning, no less.”

“A warning? Of what danger?”

“If you return my uncle’s affections, should they go beyond the cordiality of professionalism, reconsider your opinion of his character, for there is much I am confident he has not shared with you.” Mr. Hale stepped closer. A graveness shone in his eyes that demanded obedience, if not respect. “You seem to be of solid morals, Mr. Stilinski. My uncle has not reliably been a good man, and does not purport to be. If you have been fooled into thinking as much, know that it is an illusion.”

It occurred to Stiles that the secrets he was aware of that rested under the concealment of his master’s sleeve were not unknown to his nephew; far on the contrary, he seemed most familiar with the inner workings of his uncle’s state of mind, past, and emotional patterns. Nevertheless, the warning stung as if it had been Stiles’ character that had been thus defamed.

“To think!” Stiles cried. “I had supported you as strongly as I did, and urged your uncle to see beyond the troubles that riddled your past, and for naught. What acidic words you wing about!”

“The storm you have worked yourself into is telling, far more than your words ever could be. Why do you speak so passionately on his account?”

Stiles bristled; he could feel himself doing so visibly. He knew he was falling into a trap of transparency, one in which all his true emotions were on display as if through glass, but found no exit that would allow him to deny the claims he knew Mr. Hale was internally making of him and leave the conversation with intact dignity.

He was waved off before he could find an appropriate response to dispel the assumptions he had brought into being. “No matter,” said Mr. Hale. “If you harbor love for him, I can only caution you to abort such a notion.”

“My feelings, sir, are my own to govern,” Stiles said, defiant.

“Very well.” Mr. Hale straightened up; he had evidently sensed the lack of reception in Stiles’ tone, and was uninterested in pushing any farther. “Consider the warning. I will leave you now, and have a good night.”

He offered a curt nod and swept away up the banister. Stiles stood, frozen, for another few minutes, while the merry sounds of song and laughter wafted through the parlor door. He longed to be a part of such an elite group, to deserve such a place, or perhaps what he truly wished for was to share equal ground with his master. Perhaps then, in such a world, Derek Hale’s warning would have been rendered unnecessary, and Stiles’ own feelings not so crushingly complex.

He stared at the door for another few minutes, caught between the hope and the fear that Mr. Hale would appear, but he did not, too diverted with the pleasures of hosting, and Stiles was not in the mood for rejoining the party; on the contrary, he felt his mind spiraling further and further downward, deep into a shadowed well of his own insecurity. His feelings for Mr. Hale belonged down there as well, eclipsed from human eyes, unseen by all.

He retired to bed soon after, his mood too dampened to lend itself to reading or even contemplation. Sleep was a far better solution, as it offered him a blissful escape from the evening and the conversation he had unwillingly shared with Derek Hale.

But he was not destined for sleep that night. Dreams had hardly touched him before he reawoke, heart too full to properly allow him peace. His brimming mind roused him, urging him to rise and appease his restless limbs. He wished to walk, to wander and in turn clear his ragged mind of its whirlwind of misery, but strolling throughout the mansion would no doubt awake a memory in him of the last time he had done so; back then, the night had ended with him bathing Mr. Hale in the moonlight. It seemed a lifetime ago, if not more, and certainly seemed impossible to ever be repeated if Mr. Hale was to be married. His wife, no doubt, would perform such duties for him in the future.

He resolved to stay in his bed, but the decision was soon made moot, for a second later, the night’s peace was torn in two by frantic shouting coming from below. Stiles sat immediately, panic pulsing through him, and he grabbed his dressing gown and hurried to wrap it around himself.

He was not the only one awoken by the kerfuffle; through plank and plaster he could distinguish hurried footsteps, stomping urgently through the house, and by the time Stiles had emerged into the dark hall, it was full with panicked sleepers all aroused from their slumbers. Fear ran through them all as guests and staff alike continued to unlock their doors and hurry into the hall; only two or three were prepared enough to carry candles. Mrs. McCall was one, standing at the head of the murmuring crowd—she seemed, despite her frazzled state, to be doing her utmost best to calm the crowd; several of them had begun demanding explanations, if not silence. The group went to move as one agitated collective down the hall, but Mrs. McCall kept them contained—she no doubt, just like Stiles, feared that whatever lay beyond the hall and was to blame for the disturbance would be much too disturbing for the guests.

She sought to pacify them by saying, “Mr. Stilinski will go; he will see what is the matter.”

He did not welcome being volunteered for the position, but the bedlam was continuing one story below: voices were hollering, and Stiles allowed himself one glance at the group of nightgown-clad sleepers on the landing, huddled together in uncertainty, and resolved to find the cause of the mayhem.

He hurried down the stairs; it would not do to crawl and slink about in careful steps. The danger, whatever it was, was urgent, and demanded speed.

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, it was easy to make out the shouting voices: Mr. Hale and his nephew, it seemed, were the loud perpetrators creating the din, and the epicenter of the commotion was the parlor—more worryingly, however, was the sudden scent of smoke, of burnt wood and cloth, that joined the air. Renewed fear seized Stiles. He approached the parlor and rounded the corner, seizing the knot of fortitude he knew was coiled, dormant, inside himself.

He swung open the door. The smell of charred wood did indeed originate there—Stiles’ heartbeat froze as he realized that Mr. Hale and his nephew were in the process of stomping out a fire that had erupted by the bookshelf and engulfed the kindling that was the rug. Stiles could not stifle the gasp that fell from him, and within a moment, he had drawn the attention of the two men.

“Mr. Stilinski!” It was the junior Mr. Hale who spoke first as he noticed Stiles’ presence. His uncle quickly followed suit, whipping around. The fire was mostly contained, reduced to little but glowing embers on the soft fibers of the rug, but it had done a fair amount of damage: the shelf by the wall looked blackened near its base, the rug was half devoured by flames, and the floorboards suffered scorch marks. The two men laboring over it also looked worse for wear. Sweat shone on both their foreheads, Mr. Hale’s hair had fallen from its styled pomade, and his nephew’s pant leg was liberally burnt. Suddenly, the acrid scent of burnt flesh hit Stiles’ nostrils. Dozens of questions seemed to assault him.

“All is well, do not worry,” said Mr. Hale, voice deceptively calm. “Did our commotion rouse you?”

“Not just I—the entirety of Hale House is awake! And clamoring for answers. They have sent me to fetch them,” said Stiles, although he was little interested in returning to the panicked group at present. “What’s happened?”

“A fire has broken out, but the threat has passed.”

“But how? Was a candle left out in error?”

The two Hales shared a brief glance. They seemed to be transmitting silent wavelengths of information to one another, information that Stiles was not to be privy to. The oblivion he was escorted to was an unwelcome place.

“The cause is unclear,” was Mr. Hale’s final remark. “But the threat is over, and the damage is minimal.”

Minimal! The claim was a parody of itself: scorched furnishings forgotten, the physical wounds—the scent of seared skin still pungent in the air—were surely grave and required the immediate attention of a physician. He felt as if he were a child, shielded from the magnitude of the situation for the sake of his own innocence.

“Unbelievable. Your calm nature, if it is to inspire my own, is ineffective. And sir—!” Stiles said, turning to Derek Hale. He could not wrench his eyes away from the seared pant leg, although he knew that should the man turn it and expose what was sure to be a gnarly wound, Stiles’ supper would be forced to evacuate via his throat. “Your leg—we must call the doctor.”

“No,” snapped the elder Mr. Hale. His hand found Stiles’ arm, the touch startlingly pacifying. “My dear boy, he is fine. Derek, show the poor boy that you have suffered no lasting injuries.”

Stiles moved to protest, but ere he could, the leg was turned into the moonlight for optimal viewing. The pants were beyond repair, singed to a frayed hem, but miraculously, his flesh was saved from the flames—his shin and ankle, both areas Stiles had suspected the worst of, were smooth and untouched by the mark of fire. It was astounding, if not tremendously puzzling.

“Stiles,” said Mr. Hale softly before Stiles could speak, “go reassure the others that nothing of import has happened, that we are not being scalped for our wealth by vagabonds, and that they ought to return to their beds at once. Then return here with a wet cloth and a candle, and we shall ensure that no remaining embers will light once more.”

Stiles, although shaken, did not refuse, even though the prickling of his unsoothed terror pushed him to stay close to Mr. Hale and seek the safety that his presence procured. He hurried to the hall whereupon he had left all the sleepers who had quitted their beds in a flutter, all of who were still clutching their nightgowns and shivering in the dark.

“All is well,” said Stiles to their imploring faces, remembering Mr. Hale’s words, particularly the steadiness he spoke them with. He did not believe the words even as they left his own throat, but knew it would be crucial to say them, to minimize the anxiety erupted from such an incident. “A candle was left burning and ignited a curtain,” he said. It seemed to be the most plausible of explanations, and his owlish onlookers were appeased by the logic behind it. “No danger remains. Return to your rooms and attempt to sleep off this unfortunate occurrence!”

They were all too eager to oblige; within minutes they had all shuffled back to their rooms and relocked their doors, leaving Stiles uncomfortably alone at the head of the hallway. He knew the staff would never be so incompetent as to forget to snuff out a candle, and strongly believed that both Mr. Hales were purposefully concealing the greater truth from Stiles’ ears. It chilled him, renting his tranquility in twain, even as stillness resumed around him.

He hurried back down the steps to the kitchen to fetch the wet rag Mr. Hale had requested, but the errand was halted when the sound of footsteps, slow and creaking, alerted him—whoever was awake with him this deep into the night was taking care to deliberately hush the noises of their walk on the old floorboards, and Stiles felt a strange intuition that whoever was responsible did not wish to be caught.

The footsteps sounded once more; they came from behind a panel, no more than one wall away. A blend of curiosity and fear arrested Stiles’ steps, as he knew little of the intentions of the wayfarer currently up and about with him tonight, and fright nearly trumped his will to investigate, but before he could hasten to return to the parlor, a dim, flickering light gleaming on the wall of the neighboring room caught his attention. A candle.

Perhaps, he thought, heart storming wildly, it was the arsonist, still crouched in the bowels of the mansion to avoid detection, and fright gripped Stiles once more. There was a voice speaking, quiet but cantankerous, and soon, Stiles was able to identify the speaker: none other than Kate Argent.

“It hardly matters,” said she. Her words were tinged with remnants of rage. “It did not work, now did it? Now cease your endless reprimands. I am tired of them, and you.”

Her brother appeared to be the target of her exasperation, her conversational partner at present. His equally familiar voice whispered back, “It does matter, and to think otherwise is reckless!”

Stiles stepped into the doorway. He cleared his throat.

Miss Argent stood there, as expected, although her attire was not: she was cloaked in outdoor clothing; even a packed bag rested at her feet. She looked to be ready traveler. Her brother, meanwhile, was clutching a candle, and appeared to be deep within an argument with his sister. Both of them spun, as if caught, at Stiles’ intrusion, and momentary panic sprang across Miss Argent’s countenance.

“The butler,” she said after she had calmed herself. Contempt was abundant in her tone. “What on earth are you doing?”

“The same question could be returned.”

“And I rebuff it. I am a guest of this house, am I not? I am permitted to traverse the halls.”

“One does not usually dress in outerwear when… traversing the halls.” Stiles did not fail to note the discomfort that arrested them both. The tension rose like steam through all three; none of their energies were passive enough to submit to the others, instead warring with each other in complete silence. The two of them, much like the Hales down the hall, gave off the air of knowledge that was purposefully kept concealed. He added, “Besides, an incident has occurred, and it isn’t wise for you to be wandering. A fire broke out in the parlor.”

“A fire?” repeated Miss Argent.

“It’s been contained,” said Stiles.

“Good to know.”

She lacked the frantic concern that had all the others grasped by their nostrils, instead exuding a strange amount of nonchalance. Stiles felt as if he were on the precipice of understanding something, but did not have all the pieces together to assemble the puzzle; all he did know was that there was something most peculiar in tonight’s events, something potentially nefarious, but he knew that his own bias was tempted to lay the blame on Miss Argent. He had no proof of whatever crimes she may have committed, and it wasn’t his place to push the matter.

“It’d be safest if you return to your rooms,” Stiles suggested.

“That is exactly where we were headed,” said the brother. He reached for his sister’s elbow, which she promptly removed from his grip. “Goodnight.”

Miss Argent seemed less than happy at who the events were progressing. She blew out the candle in her hand and set it down most loudly, plunging Stiles into darkness as she abandoned the kitchen. The moonlight offered fair substitute, and Stiles felt his way through the cabinets until he found a spare cleaning cloth to wet. He returned to the parlor, more unnerved than before for reasons he could not name.

“Finally!” cried Peter as Stiles slipped back into the parlor. He quickly rid Stiles of the wet cloth and held the lit candle between the three of them; his own had expired and was now sitting, a mangled stump of wax, on the nearest shelf. “What the devil kept you so?”

“I ran into Miss Argent and her brother. They were whispering in the kitchen.”

Even in the low light, it was easy to see Mr. Hale’s paling face as all color swept from his cheeks. He stiffened, as if Stiles’ comment gripped him tightly. His nephew looked equally unwell.

“One of you, either of you, must tell me what is transpiring here,” demanded Stiles, fear coaxing the command from him. “There is more at play here than what you are admitting.”

“You forget your place, Mr. Stilinski,” said Derek Hale, most crisply. “Thank you for your assistance, that is all.”

His cool regard for Stiles was unwarranted, even if he had, admittedly, stepped beyond the behavior of a faithful butler, but to pose no inquiries and obey without reason had never been his forte. Inquiry and rebelliousness were at the core of his very nature, and he did not rebuff them, even now.

“I am as much resident in this home as you are,” said Stiles. “If there is something amiss, I have a right to know, lowly servant or not.”

He very nearly besmirched the power and wealth that the two men in front of him boasted, but instead made the wise decision to turn the foul words on himself. Derek Hale looked at the ceiling; it took Stiles a beat to realize he was derisively rolling his eyes at Stiles’ antics.

“Nothing is amiss,” said Mr. Hale. “Nothing but a sheer accident. You can return to your bed and attempt to sleep for the remainder of the dwindling night.”

He held Mr. Hale’s gaze for as long as he could muster, sure that flickers of deceit would appear. He felt like a boy, one too young to be trusted with the truth of a situation, as his father had often done for him when he was still a child, but he was no longer a child, and the shielding stung now more than it protected. It was as if he was tossed on an unquiet sea, destined to stay buoyant but hopelessly unaware of what lurked underneath the surges of waves, if terror could strike at any moment.

“Fine,” he said. “Goodnight.”

He exited the parlor and ascended the stairs before a reply could be given to him. He was not tired and did not want to retire to bed, but did as we told, although with palpable bitterness in his step. It seemed that not a week could pass without a night being disrupted in some odd fashion, and Stiles had begun to grow accustomed to the intrusions. The ghastly hours of the morning could only be two things, with no existing middle ground: gravely quiet, to the point where the entire house felt disconcertingly like mausoleum, or torn asunder with noise and racket. If it wasn’t howling and snarling at odd hours, it was physical damage to the property, and Stiles could only hope that the situations weren’t escalating.

Rosy streaks were beginning to color and brighten the east by the time drowsiness did affect Stiles, the nerve-wracking events of the tumultuous night not managing to overpower his churning mind and racing adrenaline until well after dawn rose on the horizon. By then he knew it to be fruitless to sleep, for he would soon be expected to return to his duties, no matter the disruption that had cut into his slumber. The others would, no doubt, be following the same propriety, and Stiles needed no extra care.

Exhausted and wrung, Stiles’ mind still rebuked the very idea of resting, even as Stiles lay nestled in his sheets, waiting for morning to break. He was tormented with thoughts of what he had stumbled upon hours earlier in the kitchen, not to mention the Hales’ tight-lipped secrecy at what he had discovered and desired answers for. He still had no better than mere conjectures, despite his lost of inquiries only growing exponentially, unanswered, since his time at Hale House began.

\--

“Something most unusual occurred last night,” Stiles revealed to the cook when morning fully broke. Meals, especially breakfast, had become an extravagant affair since the arrival of Mr. Hale’s guests, and Stiles was recruited to lend a helping hand to the kitchen efforts. Currently, he was stationed by the counter sharpening the dulled knives.

“I’ll say!” cried the cook. “Such a commotion at such a ghastly hour!”

“Beyond that,” said Stiles; the fire was hardly news. The morning had brought with it nothing but murmurings from staff and guests alike, all following a similar vein of: “but what on heavens caused the blaze?” and “what a mercy that we were not all excruciatingly burnt in our beds!” and “we are all lucky that not more was damaged.” Stiles was glad that, in a flash of good fortune, nobody began spouting theories of arson—raw panic would then naturally spread through the mansion like disease.

“What, there was more?” asked the cook.

“Miss Argent and her brother were awake last night while the rest of us had just awoken from the kerfuffle downstairs. They were here, in this very kitchen, arguing.”

“Aye, it can be hard to fall asleep in such an old house sometimes, particularly in the winter.”

“It didn’t seem as if they were up in search of a cup of tea.”

“You cannot be truly worried now,” chastised the cook. “Mr. Hale is a clever man who would know better than to let anyone inside this house whom he doesn’t trust.”

Stiles knew well of Mr. Hale’s cleverness, but felt that to deem his intelligence infallible was a fault, even if it did provide comfort to the servants. All men, smart or not, were prone to mistakes now and then, and were capable of being hoodwinked. It did not help, of course, that Mr. Hale seemed extraordinarily distracted as of late—most likely due to his nephew’s arrival—and was diverted from spending any time concerned over the intentions of his guests.

Stiles’ distrust must have been most clear on his face, for the cook sighed and said, “Have you told the master this?”

“You don’t think he will see it as an impertinence?”

“Not from his favorite!”

“His favorite?”

“We’re all well aware Mr. Hale has a soft spot for you. The way he searches after you, to talk, to converse, to check on your wellness. It is most unusual for such a man.” He set about rolling out a dough for the day’s bread, floured hands kneading it into a desirable shape. “A master can’t do such things without losing one’s authority, typically—he must keep servants at a due distances and not engage with them.”

Stiles was not in the mood to dabble in talk of such things as he would be at any other occasions. His conversation with Mr. Hale from the previous night still rung all too clearly in his memory, specifically the order to return to his bed and the obvious fib that no trouble was afoot at the house, despite the very real threat of a fire that had the potential to consume the entire home in a gaping maw of flame. He was still cross with Mr. Hale by morning, even if he logically acknowledged that there was no reason for him to be.

His brooding came to be too much for the cook by the early afternoon, and he was sent off to wash windows in the east hallway with a rag. He wished for a more diverting task, something that would keep his mind from wandering back to his own dark thoughts, but Mrs. McCall refused to absolve him from pane duty. He was not, it seemed, the only one out of sorts: the scare of the fire had shaken everybody up.

Not immune from the glum mood were the two Hales; Stiles was given insight to their own sour dispositions when, walking by the library, he overheard familiar voices arguing through the ajar oak door. Mr. Hale and his nephew were heatedly conversing about what seemed to be a most divisive topic.

“— _is_ imperative!” said the nephew. “When dangers like these are present—”

“It will be at your own peril that you reveal anything to him,” Mr. Hale interjected. He spoke with a rage that stayed confined to the binds of a whisper, yet still it carried all the magnitude of a shout. “I will not answer for the consequences if you so much as mention the truth to him. It is far too hazardous for him to know.”

“It’s hazardous for him _not_ to know!” was the rebuttal, rising in volume as the sentence concluded. “It is unaccountably selfish to keep pivotal information from him that he ought to have known months prior. He has been given no choice, and regarding your misplaced _attachment_ to him—”

“Judgment is not in your place to give!”

“See reason: what happened last night had the potential to be disastrous.”

Stiles meant not to intrude—rather, he had intended to listen further and glean more from their heated conversation—but he had grown too cocky of his hiding spot, for one shifted foot made the error of stepping on a groaning floorboard that immediately made his presence known. Immediately, all talk halted within the library, and within seconds, heavy footsteps thundered toward the door before it was thrust open.

The dark brow of his master stood before him. It softened when his eyes landed on Stiles.

“Stiles,” he said. “Since when is knocking is out of your realm of capability?”

Stiles stuttered—a true response escaped him.

“How long have you been listening?” Mr. Hale asked.

Before Stiles could cobble a bluff together, Derek Hale was answering for him. “Ten minutes, at least,” he said.

How he could know such a thing was beyond Stiles, unless he had not been as well hidden as he had assumed. Did his shoes cast a shadow underneath the door? The two men exchanged incensed looks that sizzled in the air between them; so tangible was this anger that Stiles was certain he was about to be, in no uncertain terms, ordered away with great haste. Instead, Mr. Hale wheeled on his nephew.

“I trust you’ll consider our conversation,” said Mr. Hale to him. His voice was dropped to avoid being overheard by Stiles, but it carried a strange energy, a strange fire, that allowed Stiles to hear it nonetheless. “And beware the consequences your actions might produce.”

Once more, a wordless transaction appeared before them, communicated solely through the eyes. Finally, after a thickly tense minute, Derek Hale drew a breath, exhaled it, and left the room. He did not spare Stiles a glance on his way out.

Mr. Hale watched the door for an elongated time after his nephew left, as if suspicious that he were pressed against the wood for the sake of eavesdropping. Their conversation hadn’t left him in a positive disposition; rather, a headache seemed to be brewing behind his creased forehead. He turned to Stiles, who had begun to suspect he was to punished for bending a nosy air to what was surely family affairs, especially given Mr. Hale’s obviously foul temperament, but instead he gave an attempt at a lighthearted smile. It did not quite reach his eyes, but the gesture alone was calming.

“I owe you an apology,” he said. “I realize I was being dismissive last night, and you were no doubt shaken and in need of reassurance.”

The apology shocked Stiles. He had not expected the words. “Does that mean you are willing to share what you refused to last night?”

“I’m afraid not. Although I admire your determination.” He took a step closer. He did not look well rested, but quite harrowed; it was clear he had little sleep after the fire broke out in the parlor. “You vanished ever so quickly yesterday.”

“Your nephew made it clear he did not require my presence.”

“No, not then—at the party. I had the chance to sing but one song with you.”

Stiles chuckled despite himself. “One too many that I had hoped.”

Mr. Hale did not appear to be listening. He slid his hand to Stiles’ jaw, thumb hovering over where it might land on Stiles’ cheek. Words almost visible were half-created on his lips, but he seemed to gulp them back; Stiles wanted desperately to know their content, what he was close to uttering aloud. The moment felt precariously intimate, and Stiles knew it could not be recreated again at a later time.

“You looked… quite striking yesterday,” said Mr. Hale. “And the day before.”

“Sir?”

“No, you did, my boy,” Mr. Hale insisted. “Perhaps you felt silly—incongruous, maybe, in the aristocratic crowd you were part of, but you looked every bit the part of a gentleman. I nearly—” He paused, and his voice was checked as he cleared his throat.

“Thank you,” Stiles said when Mr. Hale failed to continue speaking; the words felt weak and odd after such unexpected praise, but he knew not what else to say. The compliments left him cold, seizing him as if with chains, because to be flattered by such words was only to do harm to himself—it allowed Stiles to entertain, as daft as it was, the idea that Mr. Hale found him handsome. It was most certainly a fool’s errand to believe it possible that underneath the attraction could exist more, such as genuine feelings of love, if not adoration, but the thought was nothing more than a transference of Stiles’ own feelings and not an accurate observation of Mr. Hale’s, and to think otherwise was little better than masochistic torture. He could no longer give time to these fantasies, to allow himself to soar alongside the dream that there was a permanent place for him here at the mansion adjacent to Mr. Hale, and it was cruel of Mr. Hale to offer him such fruitless hope.

Stiles stepped out from the hand on his cheek, retreating.

“I ought to be working,” he said. His voice sounded little like his own, but rather like a warped version of it, despair twisting the syllables. “If it pleases you, I accept your apology.”

He hurried away and out the library. Shockingly, Derek Hale was not lurking by the doors waiting to accost Stiles upon his exit, nor was anyone else—the hall’s silence almost lured him into a false sense of privacy. Stiles did not linger, however, and chose to have his emotions leak in the sanctum of his own room.

More and more, he was willingly playing the part of the halfwit, a sap webbed hopelessly in a delusional reverie of his own making. Favorite or not, Stiles was not Mr. Hale’s spouse, nor would he ever be, and to harbor hopes for such a relationship was as dim as it was masochistic, for he was damning himself to endless disappointment by holding out for such an outcome. And to tease him as he was! Mr. Hale was certainly not making it easy to pull back, to shun the daydreams. The compliments, the touches, the admiring gazes—all were proof that Mr. Hale was every inch the cruel man Stiles had known him to be the first day they acquainted themselves with each other. 

He hid in the safety of his room until he had his emotions under control, as he had worked himself up into a righteous and deeply disappointed huff, and he did not return to his duties until his ire dissipated. It was a slow day of work anyway, as most of the guests remained cooped up in their rooms out of gloomy fear and trepidation after the scare that was the previous night’s conflagration. After retreating from his quarters, Stiles did little aside from help Mrs. McCall discard of the half-burnt rug in the parlor and replace it with an equally mesmerizing one stored in the attic that Mr. Hale had acquired years ago in India. It made Stiles’ heart lurch, unwillingly, as Mrs. McCall told the story of his trip there; oh, how he longed to explore the world as Mr. Hale had, nearly as much as he longed to do it with a companion like Mr. Hale himself. He imagined, while shaking dust out of the rug’s fibers, how Mr. Hale would look underneath the eastern sun, in loose, thin clothing that accommodated a warm Asian summer. He would be a most tantalizing sight, perhaps even more than he was now.

No—such thoughts were unwelcome. Stiles had to repress them, not allow them room in his heart.

By evening, the guests had withdrawn from their rooms once more, no longer driven to reclusivity out of fright. Gay laughter floated throughout the house, originating in the parlor—it seemed Mr. Hale had sought to brighten spirits by hosting a one-man play in the parlor. It did not escape Stiles that this was a soirée he had not received an invitation to, and that the first two instances were not grounds for a pattern, but merely coincidences, and that they would not be repeated. He would have to grow used to being excluded, something he had longed for previously but now felt slightly cold at after being deliberately shut out.

He refused the errand of bringing libations into the parlor for the guests, as he was keen on avoiding Mr. Hale entirely, but still granted himself the allowance of watching the theatrical performance his master was creating from the sliver in the parlor door. His audience laughed uproariously, and Stiles frequently had to pin his cheeks between his teeth to stifle chuckles as he listened. Mr. Hale was a natural performer with his vaudeville ambience and flair for the dramatic; singing and acting came to him with equal ability, and although a poor stage it was, Mr. Hale could make anything a stage, even the back of a parlor, pressed against a line of musty bookshelves.

“Do you find him entertaining?” asked Mrs. McCall; she had suddenly appeared behind him, Stiles so engrossed in the play he had failed to notice.

“He’s a natural,” said Stiles.

“Yes. He gets it from his own life’s tendency to be so incredulous it often resembles fiction,” she said. “Lately, I fear he’s forgotten that his reality is just so, and not a troupe of fictitious characters he can create and disperse at will.”

“What do you mean?”

She sighed, shutting the parlor door the last inch it remained open, muffling the dialogue. “He ought to consider the weight of his actions more carefully.”

She cast a mournful look at Stiles, one overflowing with pity. She looked as if she had words she wanted to utter, but thought better of it at the last moment: Stiles felt it unnecessary regardless, because he knew what her message would entail. She knew—of course she did!—of Stiles’ deprecating adoration for his master, and perhaps she had read the affection in his eyes, or his relaxed posture when he neared Mr. Hale, or fumbling mouth. He hadn’t complained about Mr. Hale in weeks, as well, and that most definitely added a great deal of credibility to the theory that he was heavily besotted.

He knew she would, if she had the courage to say it aloud, reprimand Stiles for his foolish daydreams. He did not want to hear what he had already told himself on repeat, as if it was a monk’s chanted mantra, that his feelings were sure to end in disappointment and discomfort at best.

“I think I’ll see to the clocks in the library,” said Stiles to offer himself an escape route. “They’ve needed winding.”

He hurried off. The task offered him no reprieve from his own thoughts, but it saved him from Mrs. McCall’s commiserative glances. He could hear the party rage on down the hall, and it was well past ten p.m. when the theater show seemed to draw to a close, Stiles dusting books all the while. It felt, he thought, like an apt, symbolic moment to make the line between he and Mr. Hale ever clearer: one was entertaining noble guests, while the other was performing cleaning duties.

Back when he had scarcely met Mr. Hale, he had informed him that he was still _learning his place_ at Hale House—how little difference a few months had made! He was still learning, and not successfully, since he was still entertaining absurd ideals in which he was little more than a butler.

He was ripped from his thoughts when the library door creaked open and Mr. Hale stepped within.

“Stiles,” he said. “I expected you to have already retired for the night.”

“There is still much to do,” said Stiles. “Do you need something?”

Mr. Hale shook his head. He had rid himself of his outermost layer, his jacquard jacket—his performance must have required great deals of energy—and he took a seat in an immense armchair by the fireside. 

“No. I simply desired a read before bed.” He grabbed the book sitting on the end table, a leather-bound tome with a ribbon marking the pages. “Carry on.”

Stiles regretted his decision to choose the library as his sanctuary; he knew, after all, that Mr. Hale enjoyed a literary wind-down at the end of the day. He did his best to finish up his tasks quickly, but he was agonizingly aware of Mr. Hale behind him, even if he did not watch or criticize Stiles’ work. Every few minutes, a crisp page was turned, and Stiles could not disobey the urge to turn and examine him. In the repose of reading, he looked quite relaxed, his profile receiving the light of the fire, his granite-hewn features—and what very fine features they were—only accentuated by the gentleness of the light. Stiles imagined he would look like this in the early mornings, grasped by a serenity that rarely touched him, for so often he was not so soft.

Mr. Hale looked up from his literature quite suddenly, and caught Stiles’ eyes fastened on his physiognomy. Stiles hastened to avert his gaze and return to the clocks, but it was for naught, for he had been already been seen.

“Come here, Stiles,” Mr. Hale beckoned.

“I’m afraid I cannot, sir,” Stiles said. “I will be scolded for not winding the clocks if I do.”

“Incorrigible, you are,” Mr. Hale said, and then he took it upon himself to rise to his feet and approach Stiles. By the time he stopped, he was close enough to reach out and touch, and Stiles was never so grateful before to the clock hands for keeping his wayward fingers occupied. “I have delightful news.”

“Indeed?”

“I have found myself a match,” he divulged.

A sharp twisting of Stiles’ innards pushed his fingers to a grinding halt. He had known of the inevitability of this day, of these news, but still the process of hearing confirmation of it was enough to nearly dizzy him to light-headedness. He was positive that Mr. Hale was beaming in pleasure by now, and refused to look over his shoulder to see if he was correct.

“Delightful indeed,” Stiles said. He felt hollow, carved out like a lifeless ornament. “When are the arrangements?”

“As soon as possible.”

It was impossible not to notice the satisfied glee in his master’s voice, and it only served to drive the stake deeper into Stiles’ body to remind him of the foolishness of his own devotion, the ludicrousness of his hope that Mr. Hale had ever considered him an equal. He felt the pain run through him like a swallowed poison and prayed that it would not be obvious on his features.

“Miss Argent must be pleased,” he said. “And you as well, of course.”

He thought of her sitting in this very drawing room, the picture of poise and manicured elegance. How could he not love her! Not choose her! She was competition that had only ever existed in Stiles’ own tortured mind. For Mr. Hale, she surely must have always been a certain thing.

“It’s wound,” Mr. Hale said.

“Pardon?”

“The clock,” he clarified, and then he was placing his hand over Stiles’ to calm his continued twisting, the touch searingly hot and cold all at once. Stiles felt compelled to jerk his arm aside.

“I believe Mrs. McCall mentioned needing my assistance in the kitchen,” he lied smoothly, pushing the clock back into place. “Have a pleasant afternoon, sir.”

He proceeded to hasten out of the room swiftly enough that Mr. Hale could not dare to catch him, not slowing until he reached the sanctuary of the kitchen. Mrs. McCall was not present, but the cook was peeling vegetables behind the countertop, an activity Stiles quickly asked to help with if only to establish the illusion that he was hard at work and much too busy to be disturbed should Mr. Hale come after him.

It was a juvenile decision to run away from his master as such, but Stiles had felt petrifyingly cornered with a truth he was not prepared to adopt as his own yet, that his benefactor would soon be married off and may well cast Stiles off soon after. It would be of no surprise if Miss Argent came along with a butler of her own, one with qualifications that Stiles had none of, and his subsequent termination, even when anticipated, would hurt terribly. It was agonizing now just to think of it: to not spend next year’s Christmas here in the familiarity of the Hale House he had grown so fond of, to no longer peruse the halls or stare out the windows overlooking the grounds, to leave Mr. Hale and likely never speak to him again.

He spent the rest of his day hiding out in places that offered him the chance to hide and escape reality, such as the depths of the wine cellar, where only the accidental clinking of the bottles would make Stiles’ presence known. It was bitterly cold so far below, Stiles’ lone candle that he had committed to in the effort to retain his anonymity should someone come into the cellar, doing little to impart warmth.

On impulse, he blew out even its little flame upon hearing steady footsteps on the stairs, but it was no use: the intruder came with his own source of light, a candle casting a ray of illumination much wider than Stiles’ own. The light found Stiles easily, allotting him no time to shrink and conceal himself in the shadows, leaving Stiles with no option but to stare up into Mr. Hale’s face, aglow with the candle’s orange light. It cast harsh shadows over him, dragging rings of darkness down from his eyes and nose, and so it was concerning for Stiles that even then, he felt nothing but fierce love for the man in front of him.

“I do hope you aren’t hiding down here,” Mr. Hale chastised. “You have graduated past such silly games.”

“I have not. Nor am I hiding,” Stiles said, impetuous at best. A sudden anger overtook him at Mr. Hale’s blasé tone, at how little he seemed affected by Stiles’ acute distress. Surely the thought of Stiles leaving him and severing the bond they had nurtured and fostered between them was, if nothing else, mildly upsetting for him? “I am busy with work. The bottles have stood here unsorted for much too long.”

As if to make evident that he was occupied, Stiles pushed a bottle into an empty shelf, uncaring that it did not belong there. Mr. Hale watched this without bothering to point out Stiles’ error, which was a foreboding sign more than anything else.

“Are you not cold?” he finally asked.

“No, sir,” he insisted, although he was indeed being chilled down to his very marrow thanks to the cellar’s damp, cool air. He knew that to admit to this meant being dragooned into following Mr. Hale upstairs and being sat forcibly in front of a fireplace, which was a tempting image if not for the fact that Mr. Hale would undoubtedly be there as well, and Stiles was still dedicated to the cause of avoiding him in the hopes of staving off hearing more of the ill news he knew were lurking, such as the details of his and Miss Argent’s wedding.

“You are,” Mr. Hale said, perhaps reading it off Stiles’ trembling shoulders. “Come upstairs. I’ll have Mrs. McCall prepare the kettle—”

“No. I am truly not cold,” lied Stiles once more through gritted teeth.

“My dear boy—”

“Don’t,” demanded Stiles. He wished he could command such a thing straight to his master’s face, but the very consideration of turning to glance at him seemed wild and humiliating; Stiles was positive that he would feel emotion build in his chest should he give in to the urge. “Do not say such a thing to me without meaning.”

“There is meaning,” Mr. Hale said. “I mean it as I say it.”

How cruel to dangle such affection in front of Stiles’ tattered heart! He felt awash with sudden anger, yearning to push his master backward, to explain his emotional agony as physical pain. Stiles refused to give in and become such an unleashed animal; instead he stared resolutely at the bottles of wine, the glass shining in the light of Mr. Hale’s candle, and looked little elsewhere. He scoffed at Mr. Hale’s words, finding them lacking heart.

“Do you doubt me?” asked Mr. Hale.

“Very much.”

“Why? Do you deem yourself so unlovable? Is this a curse of self-critique that I am embattled with?”

They were not the right words to say. Stiles felt more mocked than ever, wishing desperately he would no longer be held captive in this cold cellar. Mr. Hale had taken to blocking his exit, standing broad and tall in between the shelves.

“Just as I have always known, and have been told, you are a cruel man, made so by your hardships or perhaps born thus! You must delight in seeing me quiver at your words, you must want me grasping at every morsel of hope you throw at me. I will not. I owe you no explanations.”

The words tumbled out as if shoved from his throat, as impassioned as they were ill-advised. Not until his diatribe reached an end did Stiles realize what he had just spat at his master—his employer, no less—and he was seized by a prickling fear of having ruined it all. He had a good livelihood here, with friendly people to work and converse with, and stable lodgings that always boasted good fires on cold evenings, and yet somehow, like the fool he knew himself to be, he had felt it necessary to jeopardize his situation with words of mad ardor. It was horribly unwise to let his emotions grab hold of him so firmly. Looking back, they were the culprit that pushed him into such trouble in the first place, and he waited with closed eyes for the chiding that was soon to come.

A cool fingertip touching his ear and tracing his jawline interrupted his own mental war site, and Stiles’ eyes snapped open once more to see who: it was Mr. Hale, both unsurprisingly and unbelievably so, with warmer eyes than Stiles had ever seen him behold. 

“My dear,” he said again, holding Stiles’ chin in a manner that left room for no misinterpretation. “I am much charmed by you. Surely you must know this.”

It hurt like a mortal wound being blown to his chest to hear the words leaving his master's lips, almost as if they were true. Tears were nearly visiting Stiles’ eyes—certainly this was a dream—no, a nightmare—for there was no earthly logic to the confession currently being strung from Mr. Hale’s mouth. Stiles could not believe that he would be so nefarious as to bluff over such matters, for Mr. Hale was a cold man, but never quite so cold. His severeness had melted like ice in the spring for all the months Stiles had come to know him, even his humor becoming lighthearted at times, and Stiles longed to believe that that indeed was the true Mr. Hale, thawing ever so slowly after being frozen over for too long.

“You are rendered speechless,” said Mr. Hale tonelessly. His hand dropped from Stiles’ jaw. “Have I offended you so terribly?”

“No, sir.”

“Then break your silence properly.”

Stiles had little clue as to how. A dust storm of lethal measures had broken out inside of himself, leaving him a swirling cloud of befuddlement. He opened his mouth to form a reply but found the task too arduous and closed it again once again. This act repeated itself at least twice more. He took a leap of bravery and forced himself to meet Mr. Hale’s eyes, where a blend of impatience and frustration was awaiting him. Stiles was overtaken with the desire to lean in close and kiss that rock of a furrowed brow, restore the default smugness to that disgruntled face, but he knew it was imperative to first acquire the answers to the questions that were leaving him lost.

“You seem to be under be the impression that I have full knowledge of the situation,” Stiles spoke.

“You do,” Mr. Hale insisted.

“You are mistaken, sir.”

“And you are teasing me, you malicious creature,” Mr. Hale said. He set his teeth. “You are blind not to have noticed! Deaf to my language of love—”

“I am only as sightless as you are, sir! My affections have sat by you unwaveringly for months, unacknowledged, and now you dare to ridicule me?”

“I shall dare to do a whole lot more,” Mr. Hale promised. “Although right now, I believe I have a different priority.”

“What is it, sir?”

“Demand that you marry me and let me be tortured no longer.”

The nightmare was no longer as such; it had morphed seamlessly into a dream once more—even the cold of being in the belly of the house no longer affected Stiles in the least. Instead the shivers in his body were brought about entirely by the exasperated passion from the man in front of him, a man who was proclaiming to wish to marry him. Him! A butler, and a blundering one, at that. It was absurd. Many parts of Stiles were still too incredulous to be convinced, for the dream was too real, but too good, too fairy-like in its pleasure. Perhaps it was a trick of the mind, a hallucination brought about from inhaling too many fumes in the kitchen.

Mr. Hale roughly grabbed Stiles’ hands, clasping then both in his. “Let your answer come on swift wings. I have waited for eternities.

“Impossible, sir.”

“Give me my name,” he demanded. “Say Peter—call me Peter. Say my name and that you will marry me.”

“Are you in jest?”

“It is vicious of you to continuously accuse me of such heartless games!” he hissed.

“Only as cruel as playing such a game would be!”

“There is no game, and there shall be no more talk of it! I am most earnest—here now, I will show you myself.”

He grabbed Stiles and crushed him close, kissing him with a fervency that could not be mistaken. When it ended, Stiles could not even remember whether or not he had participated or merely stood there motionless, aghast and amazed, but he knew with most certainty that he wanted to repeat the contact immediately, to finally touch his master all the ways his imagination had been able to but he himself had not. He clutched at Mr. Hale’s arms as he attempted to extract himself from their embrace, desperate to stay huddled close to him while no one but the wine bottles watched.

“Say it now, Stiles,” Mr. Hale ordered, voice roughened now. His hands had found Stiles’ face once more, cupping his cheeks with a reverence that felt as natural as it did celestially unreal. “Accept my hand and know that I have longed for none other than yourself since your arrival.”

Stiles felt nearly suspended in midair, caught in some lifelike dream. He searched for trickery in those blue eyes boring into his, desperate for his reply, and Stiles’ heart beat impatiently against his chest when he realized that none existed there; Mr. Hale was being true with him.

“Peter,” he said, trying out the name on his tongue; it sent a spark through his throat to think that this was a name he was entitled to use on his master henceforth. “If you are truly as affected by me as I am by you, of course I will marry you, and match wits with you for the rest of my days.”

Mr. Hale kissed him once more, his ardor only growing after Stiles’ acceptance, and held him close enough that not a muscle of his remained a mystery, soaking all the cold from Stiles’ frame and replacing it with his scorching warmth.

“Come, my groom,” he said into Stiles’ mouth. He grasped Stiles’ wrist, grabbing the candle once more and pulling him out of the cellar with a renewed vigor. “You are a divine temptation,” Mr. Hale murmured to him. His hand stroked down the length of Stiles’ back as they ascended the stairs. “How coarse would you think me if I were to lead you upstairs to my chambers and treat tonight as if it were our wedding night?”

Heat flooded Stiles’ cheeks as if he were staring into the face of a roaring fire. “Very coarse! Are these the words of a gentleman?”

“Your mouth hangs open as if you are astonished, not charmed as I know quite confidently you are!”

“How could you possibly know as a thing?”

“That is a secret I could not possibly divulge!”

Even in the dim evening light, his broad smile was easy to see, and it sent Stiles’ soul aflutter like a soaring bird. As his master pulled him to his side once more, he thought of the sordid suggestions Mr. Hale was offering him: he was not completely uninformed on the subject, although the specifications were unknown to him, but even so, he was lit inside with a burning need to please and submit to the man next to him. It did not humiliate him to know that Mr. Hale was aware of how half-drunk with love Stiles was for him; it thrilled him, rather, to know that he, perhaps, ignited the same passionate flame inside the man at the thought of Stiles’ unbidden desires.

He laughed, unable to rein in his giddy pleasure; not even the sight of the younger Mr. Hale watching the pair of them from the top of the stairs with a most scrutinizing look could interrupt his happiness. Mr. Hale seemed to agree, as he swept by his nephew without a glance as if he were little more than a servant.

“You will sleep with me tonight, will you not, Mr. Hale?” his master asked.

“I am not a Hale yet; my surname is still my own.”

“No matter,” he insisted. “You must stay in my chambers; I will even swear to keep my eager hands at bay if you request it kindly enough.”

“What will the servants think? We are not yet married, sir.”

“I care not for their opinions,” Mr. Hale snarled. He clasped Stiles’ hand in his in a commanding grip. “I care only for you, and what you think of me.” He seemed gripped by the idea suddenly, gazing with intent into Stiles’ eyes. “What do you think of me, Stiles, upon this very moment?”

Stiles was thinking of little but the surrealism of his own existence, if not the implications of what his soon-groom—groom! What a shock indeed!—had whispered to him about behaving as if the two of them were already wed. The former seemed a laughable topic to discuss, while the latter was surely much too salacious to speak of aloud, no matter how much Stiles’ own brain was torturing him with imagination-baked images and ideas, from strong uncovered flesh to his master’s sweat-laden brow as pleasure-soaked prayers abandoned his lips. Voicing such thoughts would serve only to inflate Mr. Hale’s already burgeoning ego, one Stiles wished little to feed.

“What I have always thought of you, sir,” Stiles chose to say.

“Your swiftly beating heart says otherwise.”

Mr. Hale came to a stop outside a mighty door—his bedroom—and swung it open: beyond it lay a vast room blanketed in darkness but still aglow with opulence, glittering mirrors and tall windows casting enough light about for Stiles to see a dim layer of furniture before him, better than he had the night he had followed Mr. Hale up here to bathe him. A four-poster bed made of the finest of mahogany greeted him, stood across from a gargantuan fireplace Mrs. McCall had already prepared with a modest fire. It did little to warm the large room, yet Mr. Hale did not rush over to stoke it, his focus drawn solely to Stiles, his gaze nearly a devoted hunger.

Stiles punctured his cold frame, already made so by the chill in the wine cellar, with a full-body shiver. “I am cold, sir,” he admitted.

“I will warm you up,” Mr. Hale promised, still uninterested in tending to the flames. “Disrobe yourself and make yourself comfortable under the blankets.”

Stiles did as asked, slipping off his waistcoat, breeches, and shirt and dropping the clothing on the velvet stool sat at the foot of the bed. When it came to his undergarments, a fair amount of insecurity about his scrawny frame flamed up his body, heating his uneasy flesh, as he was well aware that his services as a butler had done little to tone or strengthen his body over the months. It occurred to him that he was unsure of what Mr. Hale was drawn to inside Stiles, although he struggled to reason that his body played a part, unless, of course, Mr. Hale had been completely oblivious as to what nonexistent muscles lay beneath his clothes thanks to the thick fabrics of his layered garments.

His unease was laid to rest quite suddenly when a body embraced him from behind, a firm chest and strong arms twining around Stiles’ torso. How surreal it was that these touches existed—and how easily they came to them both! How simple it was to accept them! 

“My dear betrothed,” Mr. Hale crooned as if whispering to a bird, his lips finding Stiles’ shoulder, “I will not dare to impugn your integrity if you wish to wait for our wedding night, but you must know, that when the day comes—and I intend it to be soon—I will ravenously discover each and every centimeter of your form until I have mapped it as if I were the most loving and assiduous of cartographers.”

The words drew shivers out of Stiles—of excitement or anxiety, he could not be sure, but he suspected an even blend. He reasoned that he would perhaps feel differently in the morning, possibly accustomed to the idea of breaching the barrier of butler and employer that so baffled him now and kept him from fully comprehending the evening’s events. His fear of the unknown to come aside, he knew that he wanted, horribly, to be Mr. Hale’s, and for Mr. Hale to be his just as equally, and he would not let himself stand in his way. 

“If I were to let you handle me tonight as you suggest,” said Stiles, “I would likely find the entire day’s events too implausible, too fantastical to believe.”

“Implausible! How preposterous!” said Mr. Hale, and his grip tightened on Stiles’ body. “My affections were clear as day, and I made no secret of them.”

“A few mere hours ago I was convinced that you were engaged to be married with Miss Kate Argent!”

“My dear boy, that is an impression given to you by no one but yourself! I can take no responsibility for it.”

“You were the deliberate planter of the seed! You cannot turn a deaf ear now.”

They argued for some time afterward about the sorry state of Mr. Hale’s attempts to engage with Stiles and make his affections known, but the debate was as passionate as it was harmless—Stiles was as much in love with their endlessly dueling silver tongues as he was with Peter himself, and hoped the heat that fueled their discussions would never cool or wane, but remain kindled forever. It was not until Peter silenced Stiles with a firm kiss that left no room for speech and Stiles was once again permitted to taste and breathe in and succumb to the ministrations Peter was offering him. He was crucially aware of the heat of Peter’s body as their hands explored bare skin, of the hard muscles and unyielding strength that sat underneath his flesh, peppered with not displeasing hair.

It would take a lifetime to discover such a body thoroughly! thought Stiles, and another lifetime to understand it, and yet another to understand the man occupying the frame itself. Their proximity was dizzying; every eyelash and every blemish and every follicle of hair was on display to Stiles’ eyes, and he drank in the sights greedily.

They fell into sleep most naturally after what seemed like never-ending journeying of each other. So much came to light about a man when he was touched, felt, observed and loved, and Stiles did all thoroughly, even as he cursed the darkness of the night for hindering him.

He would have a lifetime, he reminded himself, did they were to be married, and it was with that incredulous thought that Stiles dropped into slumber.

\--

Stiles awoke the next morning in little more than a daze, half-persuaded that the night before had been a fever dream and that he now lay bedridden among the sheets with a horrible infection. The bed itself, however, was proof for the unimaginable: Stiles was in his master’s quarters, and he was to wed said master, and everything was to change. Every bit of the estate seemed brighter that the day, sunlight streaming through usually muck-caked windows and fresh air wafting through the halls. It was as if Mr. Hale’s content energy had lit a match in a previously gloomy manor.

Stiles all but floated downstairs after scurrying to his own room to fetch clean clothing and look after his appearance, wondering where Mr. Hale had wandered off to. He checked the windows in the dining area, looking for that familiar shape standing amid the tall grass, coming up unsuccessful, until he became aware of a set of eyes watching him cautiously from across the room. It was Mrs. McCall, fingers tight on a plate in her hands that she was polishing.

“Good morning,” Stiles offered to her, and she repeated the sentiment, although her voice was incredibly tight. He wondered if perhaps the woman had seen them the night before when they were wrapped up in each other’s wandering hands and climbing up the dark steps, and now she had been left to come to false conclusions.

“Was I mistaken last night when I believed to have seen you and Mr. Hale walking the grounds hand-in-hand?”

“You were not,” said Stiles. “How did you notice us?”

“I heard laughter, and when I went to the hall to track down the noise, I saw you and Mr. Hale ascending the steps together. Did you spend the evening together?”

“We did.”

Her mouth tightened into a line. “Did you spend the night together?”

“We slept under the same sheets in much the same way we always sleep under the same moon. No integrity lost.”

“I am happy to hear it, even if I am currently more confused than ever.”

“What confuses you, ma’am?”

“What is currently occurring between you and Mr. Hale? And what of Miss Argent?”

“He has offered me his hand in marriage,” Stiles said, and even now, with his mind having marinated in the idea, the spoken words brought a blush to his ears. “He intends to marry me, and not Miss Argent.”

“He has told you as much?”

“He has.”

“And you do not object?”

Stiles shook his head. He found it nearly barbaric that not the entire staff—if not all the house’s current inhabitants—knew of his developing infatuation with Mr. Hale; he had been certain that his feelings were about as well-hidden as a bumbling child playing hide-and-seek in a garden. Derek Hale had certainly discovered them quite rapidly.

“And what does Mr. Hale think of this development?”

“I dare say he knows, having instigated it himself.”

“My apologies—I refer to the junior Mr. Hale.”

“Nothing, aside from what he learned after having spied on us last night. And what business does he have managing his uncle’s private affairs?”

Mrs. McCall shook her head—she seemed almost surprised by Stiles’ lack of empathy for the man that his master had sworn him to turn an unquestioning blind eye to—and proceeded to speak in clipped tones.

“He has no family save for his uncle; any behavior of his that you may regard as intrusive is born of care and concern for his only remaining relative.”

“You believe his concern to be necessary?”

She remained mute, eyes drawn to the task in front of her. Perhaps she had believed herself to be toeing a line she ought not to cross, and wished to redact her unsupportive reaction to Stiles’ announcement of news.

“I mean not to offend,” she said primly. “But there is much that separates you two—age, class, experience. I struggle to think of what you may share.”

“Our natures are extraordinarily similar, even if it is not apparent to you.”

“Similarity is not the sole key to a marriage.”

“Yes, but we also complement each other’s missing attributes equally well. I delight in conversing with him, in matching wits, in being in his presence, and he would, I believe, return the sentiments.”

He stopped upon the realization that he did not have to explain himself to Mrs. McCall, nor anyone in the household. The decision was his to make, and Mr. Hale’s to approve, and it extended no further. She did not seem convinced of the case he was presenting, and Stiles knew that no words he could wax would change her mind, no matter the amount. It was not his plight, however, he reminded himself, and ceased his efforts.

The entire conversation left him devoid of the dreamlike mood he had begun the day in, leaving a muddled confusion in its wake. By the time he had left the woman, he was struck with the uncertainty of how to go about his day. Was he alleviated of his duties, no longer a lowly butler, but now the faithful companion of the house’s master? Had his abandonment of his own quarters signaled a change in his place at the manor, inviting him into a rank of opulence and respect he had earlier lacked?

He wished he could speak of these matters to Mr. Hale, but the man was nowhere to be found. By afternoon, Stiles began to brood in notions of his fiancé having been spooked by his own proposal and taken off to wallow in his poor decisions, and that he was now many miles away considering how to kindly phrase rejections to Stiles regarding the marriage and the two of them as anything more than staff member and employer. Mrs. McCall had drudged up such insecurity in Stiles; even the memory of how possessively Mr. Hale held and caressed him last night in his bed seemed hazy now, a mere embellishment of the truth that was a far cry from reality. Ere long, Stiles was deep in torturous thoughts bred of his anxiety, ones in which he could do little but speculate the lack of logic behind Mr. Hale’s proposal that he had, in his jubilance, completely failed to consider yesterday. He was, after all, little more than a servant, and Mr. Hale was a mighty man who was plenty in fortune and luck and could easily find himself any bride he pleased. Miss Argent had been cold and callous, that much was clear to anyone who wasn’t convinced of her and Mr. Hale’s incoming union to her, but there were many other women in the county who could easily treasure Mr. Hale’s heart, with savage beauty and a noble family to sweeten the pot. It would make infinitely more sense for him to wed one of them, especially considering the man’s arrogant and proud nature: it would be difficult, admittedly, to show off a spouse like Stiles, especially when compared to the jewels that were the women in the county eager to woo a man such as Peter Hale.

He was deeply entrenched in these depressing thoughts, lethargic in his movements as he polished the cutlery, when the noise of a carriage and a horse’s hooves trotting up the house’s path alerted Stiles to a visitor, and Mr. Hale himself appeared from the carriage, hat low on his head to protect from the cold and leather gloves tight on his hands. He looked handsome as ever, even in the cool chill of the frosted day, and Stiles felt his heart clench with uncaged longing at the sight. If he had come to regret his discussion with Stiles and was prepared to uproot their engagement, Stiles could do little but feel toyed with like a doll. It has been cruel to give him a taste of happiness last night when Mr. Hale had insisted on sharing the night with him. Even with his lack of experience in such affairs, Stiles had enough knowledge to know that Mr. Hale should have been wiser, enough so to let himself sleep on making such a confession before blurting it out unthinkingly on a poor, infatuated victim. It drew a frothing anger out of Stiles as he realized just how thoughtlessly heartless the man had been with him if he planned on rebuking it all now, and he pushed the curtains in front of the window, no longer allowing himself to watch his master approach the doors on the carriage.

Stiles’ mounting fury was interrupted by the dining room doors opening. Mr. Hale stood on the other side, still clad in all his winterwear and holding a rectangular box under his arm. A smile grew on his lips at the sight of Stiles.

“Good morning, my dear,” he said in smooth, deepened tones. It was as if seeing Stiles had an impact on the amount of satisfaction that shone through his voice.

“It is afternoon, sir.”

“Ah, but the morning was good, was it not?” Mr. Hale approached Stiles. “Give us a kiss, then.”

“I hardly think I should reward a man who left me abandoned in a cold bed this morning with my affections.”

“You missed my warmth, both inward and outward, but will you believe that it was all done in the effort to surprise you?” He lifted the box in his hand to draw Stiles’ attention toward it, but when Stiles reached for it, he drew back, a teasing smile playing on his lips. “You shall unwrap your present when you have thanked me accordingly.”

“Or perhaps I could thrust you into your own disappointment by not unwrapping it at all,” Stiles proposed. “I can resist temptation, sir.”

Mr. Hale grumbled at Stiles’ obstinance, grabbing his upturned chin. “No more of that—refer to me by my given name, as any spouse would, and do not argue by claiming to be no such thing. It is only a matter of time.”

“You no longer wish me to address you as _sir_?”

“I’d rather hear my own name leave your lips, preferably while cloaked in passion and gratitude.”

“Dream on, sir!”

Mr. Hale stifled Stiles’ laughter with a hand to his cheek, his touch not nearly as cold as what Stiles expected of a man coming from the brisk outdoors, but rather overwhelmingly warm. “Peter,” he murmured into the space between them. “Say it now— _Peter_. Speak my name.”

“Or risk your wrath?”

Mr. Hale shook his head. “Only my displeasure.”

“Peter,” breathed Stiles. The name still tasted foreign on his tongue, far too informal after months of being achingly aware of the disparity between himself and his master, a man who controlled his wages and spent his free time throwing parties to dazzle high-society crowds. It was still an utter enigma, but one that was swallowed by as if underneath the mouth of a wave, for a moment later, Mr. Hale—or perhaps, just _Peter_ now, which almost seemed much too undignified, not nearly commanding enough—leaned in and stole a kiss from him. It was not as urgent as the kisses from the prior night, but rather spoke of a content gentleness, the chasteness of it sending Stiles deep into the future, surpassing years and decades and seeing himself, as comfortable and in love as ever, with the man in front of him. It was as incredible as it was hard to comprehend.

“Now, for your present,” Peter announced, pushing the box into Stiles’ hands.

Stiles undid the fastenings and opened it. Inside sat a folded bespoke suit, expertly folded and luxurious in quality, each stitch as precise as the last and the color of it a dark, pleasing gray that spoke of sophistication. Stiles knew it was to be his, but also felt the very fact to be impossible: he had never once owned garments of this caliber, and as of now, the pieces did not feel like his own, but rather those of a fictional version of himself that either existed in the future or in another life in which fortune favored Stiles as he grew up.

“It is for you to wear the day we are wed,” Peter explained. He drew one reverent thumb down the suit’s lapel, nearly as entranced by its loveliness as Stiles. “If we hasten, we can have it properly tailored to completion prior to the day of the wedding.”

“Are we in a rush?”

Peter’s face bore no levity as he looked at Stiles. “I would rather not spend any more days without you as mine, in the eyes of the law and whoever else may ask, than what is absolutely necessary.”

“You treat me as if I am an easily frightened bird that will one day find an open window to escape through! I have nowhere else to be, and even more importantly, there is no one else I love. You have little to worry about.”

“It is less a matter of worry and more a matter of blinding want.” Peter brushed his thumb down the length of Stiles’ jaw. “I wish to hesitate no longer. Now tarry not and head upstairs. I want to see you in the outfit myself.”

He was not a man for waiting, and stood resolutely by the door until Stiles obeyed. He took the box into his chambers and slipped on the crisp garments, feeling almost as if he was disturbing a precious artwork he would not be able to replace or finance should he cause too much harm to it. Even all the creases had been lovingly prepared exactly where they should be, and Stiles marveled at the detail work as he dressed himself; it was more than apparent that Peter had spent a great deal on this suit, and no doubt was looking for praise and approval of his choice. Stiles put it on, feeling little like his true self, and felt a change in himself as he stood by the mirror and examined the appearance of himself in such fine accoutrements. He had expected to feel lost, out-of-touch with the world as he knew it, but instead a great behavioral change occurred: Stiles saw his reflection and felt emboldened, suddenly grown into his own form and maturity. He examined himself from different angles, finding that the feeling was not fading, rather growing into a pride he had never felt in his hand-me-down rags and oversized clothes.

A knock on the door startled him away from admiring his reflection. Peter stepped inside; he had most likely grown impatient waiting for Stiles to appear in his groom’s suit. His scrutinizing gaze gave way to Stiles’ previously halted insecurities.

“You must stop staring so silently,” Stiles told him. “You have an opinion, I’m certain, so speak it already. Do I look like a fool?”

“No,” said Peter. “You look like a fine man.”

“A man fit to marry a man of your stature?”

“You always appeared so; the suit makes little difference in such matters. You think I have bought you these pieces so you can climb into my realm of luxury and I may find you acceptable rather than a shameful thing to admit to loving? Far from it, although if the suit pleases you, I am happy to procure many more.”

“Stop, for heaven’s sake, you speak as if you are waxing poems.”

“Would speaking plainly make the message clearer for you?”

Stiles knew he could not handle the emotion of hearing it repeated just how little Peter cared for his lack of wealth. It helped little that Derek Hale’s voice rung like a haunted chime in his mind, warning him away; it had not occurred to him at the time, but it was altogether possible that he had believed Stiles to be an unfit match for his uncle and wanted merely to frighten him away from his own affections, which even then, bloomed as ferociously as they did now. He grasped Peter’s wrists, wishing the uncertainty to quit wavering in throat.

“Your nephew, have you rekindled a friendship with him?”

“We are working toward it. Why?”

“He thinks me not suitable for you,” said Stiles. “I know little of his reasons—possibly my lack of wealth is a factor, or my class.”

“Whatever are you talking about?” Peter asked. His eyes darkened. “Did he say such a thing to you? Did he insult your character by implying that my money was the true goal you sought?

“No, never so bluntly. He did, however, warn me away from you.”

“Pardon?”

Stiles transpired their conversations, all of which culminated in a series of warnings. Upon hearing the retelling, Peter exhaled through his nose and set his teeth, then set about gathering Stiles up in his arms as if holding him captive from outside influences. Stiles felt a kiss laid upon his head.

“This only seeks to reiterate what I have already suggested: stay away from my nephew; he is deeply troubled and mustn’t be trifled with. It will be one of the most benevolent acts you have ever performed.”

The protection the cage of arms that Peter offered was most reassuring. Stiles twined his arms around Peter’s waist, awed at how natural the intimacy between them was, how it soared and soothed his heart all the same. This, he thought, was what was impossible to explain to Mrs. McCall, what she had failed to understand, what bonded the two of them together. It was an unspeakable thing that rested between his ribs, pulsating and ever-growing—he felt sure that one day, it would grow so deep and fast that it would swallow him whole.

“He is hardly mad,” said Stiles. “His words are sensible, for from an outsider's perspective, our match is most definitely a peculiar one.”

“I have no use for an outsider’s perspective,” grumbled Peter. “Only my own.”

Upon hearing his words, Stiles opted to not share the conversation he had shared with Mrs. McCall this morning; if the thoughts and disapproval of others mattered not to his master, than Stiles would be wise to not press upon the subject. It unnerved him, facing so much opposition, but his own affections were stronger forces. It was as if being drunk, pressed inside Peter’s embrace, and the little space between them left no room for outside meddling, whether it was another’s voice or hand.

“You are a sorcerer, I’m sure,” muttered Peter atop Stiles’ hair. His lips were stooped low to brush over Stiles’ ear lobe; the temptation to lean into the touch and demand more was almost irrepressible. “You have me spellbound, entranced. To be under such a charm is as fixating as it is exasperating.”

“And when will you be released?” asked Stiles, for he felt as if he were under a similar enchantment.

“Never,” whispered Peter. “My ardor will keep the spell alive.”

He sounded as if he were performing one of his plays, one of his theatrical performances to please a crowd, but Stiles still believed every word—he was as dramatic as he was convincing. What a man, Stiles thought, and what a future did he have to look forward to beside him? It was sure to be a palpitating experience.

\--

In the following weeks, Stiles followed his orders and spoke little to Mr. Derek Hale, keeping their interactions succinct even if he was continuously aware of how the man’s eyes would follow him around any room with a scrutiny that was agonizingly dedicated. Stiles felt certain that he possessed something he felt compelled to say, but was choosing not to; the wordless heaviness that sunk around them when Stiles was in his vicinity was almost suffocatingly strong. He was desperate to disobey Peter’s request to indulge in no conversations with his nephew; it sat very uncomfortably with Stiles that the man held a secret within his breast pocket that he was not letting go of.

Stiles’ disappointment in this matter was easily overshadowed, however, by the hundreds of other tasks that suddenly sprung up around the estate as the nuptials grew ever closer. Mr. Hale had relieved Stiles of many of his duties as to make it clear that he was marrying the man, not the maid beneath, although he did so cautiously: Stiles only took notice when the cook took over Stiles’ cutlery cleaning duties and Mrs. McCall busily dismissed him from handling the laundry so she could complete the task. His days became longer with his freed time, but it was hardly spent in relaxation. Peter had him preparing for the wedding daily, frequently entrusting him with tailoring duties, inviting his friends and colleagues, and preparing the minister for the ceremony, all of which combined into a mess of errands so interwoven that Stiles realized that his original work dusting hearths and winding clocks was mere child’s play to the schedule he was adhering to as a soon-to-be groom.

Peter’s large party of guests all trickled home as well as the worst of the winter’s frosts thawed. Given all there was to do, Stiles was not apologetic to see them and the exuberance they brought to the mansion go, especially Kate Argent, who even with the element of competition removed, Stiles was still not overly fond of.

“Competition!” said Peter. “Hardly. You must forgive a man for yearning for the flicker of jealousy in the eyes of the object of his affection, but there was truly no contest.”

Much changed after the visitors returned home. Stiles had expected the house to return to its previous state, but too much had developed between now and then for such a thing to be possible: Stiles now ate regularly with Peter—and in the comforts of the dining hall at that, where he had never consumed a meal before—and spent most of his nights in Peter’s majestic chambers instead of his own, as Peter all but forbade him sleeping alone after their engagement, much as he had all terms of formality between them ( _sir_ and _Mr. Hale_ were both categorically refused by him now).

Even stranger was how quickly the news—and acceptance—of their relationship spread throughout the mansion. It was as if no one was the least bit surprised by the turn of events, regardless of whether or not they approved, although Mrs. McCall, who Stiles had fully expected yet more lectures from, did not air her grievances with the matter again, perhaps by order of Peter himself.

The day of the wedding seemed to approach with a haste that sped along time itself. Stiles awoke to wretched weather but to hardly dampened spirits, the knowledge that his entire identity was to change as drastically as his life already had overwhelming all woes concerning rain and cold.

“A most horrid day for such an occasion,” murmured Mrs. McCall as she stood by the window, peering outward at the storm-ridden clouds that swept over the fields. “It is good that there is no superstition residing inside you.” She mumbled, under her breath: “ _If without the sun’s shine you will marry, riches come but love will tarry._ ”

Stiles smiled. His father would never have entertained such talk, but his mother certainly would have. If they were here today, Stiles considered, he wondered what they would have to say, how they would regard their only son on the day of his wedding. His father had been ever the observant man, and Stiles wished he knew what he would have said of the character of Stiles’ groom, if he would have approved heartily or harbored doubt. Stiles was hardly smothered in doubt, but there was an element of uneasiness that touched him regardless—he was fairly certain that the mystery that Derek Hale possessed, and Peter’s firmness that Stiles not speak to him was the cause. It was very much his nature to know all, if not most of what a situation offered, and to be so blatantly kept out of the know was a strange feeling: an itch, almost, that resided under his flesh.

He dressed for the ceremony early in the morning in the privacy of his room. His garments felt as incongruous on him now as they did when he first tried them on; ever still, he felt little like a man who deserved to wear such extravaganza, and more like a boy who was unjustly privy to another’s wardrobe. The clothes he normally donned lay slung over the back of a chair; they seemed an emblem of his past now.

Peering in the mirror, the outfit, as well tailored as it was, felt nearly like an illusion: Stiles felt not quite himself in it, but rather an inflated version, as if looking upon an alternate universe—was this the fate and life that would have beheld a boy granted different circumstances, such as surviving parents and a wealthy background? It was strange to gaze upon the boy in the mirror, undeniably handsome, and wonder if he was what Stiles was destined to become from this day forward after his wedding.

His wedding! What a ludicrous thought! Stiles was still unable to grasp it, even with the prospect gazing down upon him mere hours away.

Mrs. McCall came into his room again later to tell him that the rain had washed out Mr. Hale’s plans to marry under the sky, and that all the proceedings had been moved to the east hall. She looked quite distressed, but Stiles wondered if not all mothers experienced such anxiety when losing a child—she had resembled quite the maternal figure for him over the last few months, after all, complete with motherly worry showed at every turn.

“Mr. Hale asks that you hurry,” said she.

It was strange to be so rushed, particularly on a day when Stiles thought savoring was the order of the day, but he assumed it was impatience that governed Peter at the moment; he had often spoken, directly into Stiles’ ear, over the course of the last few hectic weeks that he could scarcely wait for the moment they stepped over the altar, hand-in-hand.

Nerves had begun to mount in Stiles’ soul like a mountain. Did all grooms feel thusly affected on the day they were to be wed? Stiles smoothed the creases from his suit over and over, but the repeated action brought him little consolation. When he gazed upon his quarters, the four walls that had served as his safest point for the past few months, a hollowness rose into being in his chest. It felt, strangely, as if he was departing from a past version of himself; after today, Mr. Stilinski, the clumsy butler, would be a thing of the past, and rushed in would be a different man: Mr. Hale, the husband of an influential and most intimidating man. It was a ludicrous thought! Not even weeks of accustoming himself to the idea was enough to make it seem any more like even a grain of reality.

And was to become of his post? Who would replace him in the line of handiwork the house required? And what could be done of Derek Hale, who would no doubt proceed to treat Stiles with an indifference bordering on coldness even after the nuptials? Suddenly, the questions bombarded Stiles like an avalanche, and the wedding seemed an impulsive thing, something done in a moment’s haste.

“Stiles!” came a voice from downstairs; it was Peter’s, calling for his presence.

Now was not the time for doubts; Stiles knew that much. He spared himself one last glance in the mirror—a pale man he hardly recognized blinked back at him—and he hastened downstairs. The main hall was empty; everyone had likely congregated in the east corridor already. The door to it stood at the end of a long gallery. It seemed, dauntingly, like the longest walk of Stiles’ life.

He was not three steps down the hall when he was wrenched aside by a hand seizing his wrist. It was Derek Hale, eyes ablaze with imminence. Indifference no longer colored his face, instead, now sheer insistence reigned over his features. He was nearly something to fear.

“It is utterly unjust for you to marry this man without the knowledge I lay before you,” he said. Urgency bled from his voice. “There is an impediment to this marriage, and I speak advisedly. Peter Hale is not a good man—he is not even a man at all.”

Stiles yanked his arm back into his own control. “Say now, this has gone on too long! What is the meaning of such words? Now I know why Peter has ordered me to stay away from you!”

“No, you do not know—he has done so because he does not want me to reveal to you what he attempts to hide. But to wed you, with such a secret!”

“What secret? I beg you now, end this infernal mystery.”

“He is not a man. He is pure beast, in the plainest sense of the word.”

“Speak plainly.”

“He is a lycanthrope. A monster, possessed fully by the moon, by the animal within.”

Derek Hale spoke soundly, surely, with as much feeling as a man under the threat of imprisonment would. His words rung in the air obscenely.

He was mad, this nephew! The insanity was the reason Peter had sought to keep them separated, then. “A lunatic,” he breathed, and felt, for the first time, unsafe under Derek Hale’s maniacal eye.

“Search your memories, and you will find it to be true,” said Derek. He spoke with such conviction, such steadiness, that Stiles felt compelled to listen to his demoniac man’s speech. “He has taken lives, murdered in cold blood, all at the behest of the wolf, which owns a liberal portion of his heart, mind and soul.”

“You speak deliriously—hysterically!”

“I told you, Mr. Stilinski, that I speak advisedly, and I mean to protect my words with evidence. I can vouch for them because the mutation I speak of, the lycanthropy, is genetic—I am as affected as my uncle.”

Stiles took a panicked retreat backwards. He hardly managed two steps, his nerves vibrating in his thundering veins, as Derek Hale extended his arms and shut his eyes, as if preparing for some great feat—what it was, Stiles knew strongly he had no interest. He would have chosen that frozen moment to bolt had the door to the hall not burst open then, and inward came Peter.

He was dressed in garments even more dashing than Stiles’, a true groom, but Stiles could muster no elation at the sight; his nephew’s scene had precedent in his brain at present.

“What is the matter here?” demanded Peter. “My boy, you are meant to be accounted for in the other room.”

“I refused to let him enter the arrangement blind, uncle,” said his nephew; his voice was immeasurably cold. “To have spared him the truth during your courtship was one oversight, but to cajole him into such an unearnest marriage—it is atrocious. And to think I had hoped your character had grown—!”

“Enough,” said Peter. His face had become a colorless rock, eyes blazing. Stiles feared them both in that moment, not in terms of physical peril, but of what would come to light next. He could hardly bear to consider that perhaps, Mr. Hale’s outrageous fable held truth.

“It is done. He knows all.”

Peter had become little less than a thundercloud. Even from a distance, Stiles could see the fury quiver through his frame, turning his pale face a furious white. He resembled a ghost’s hue in all but eyes, which normally shone as a pleasant blue, but had adopted an icy, charged light, turning it to spark and flint. Was it a trick of the light? Stiles wished he had something to find purchase on, something to steady himself upon.

“Reveal yourself,” said Derek, and he unearthed a vial from his pocket. It gleamed with purple powder, innocuous enough in appearance, but the sight of it still sent Peter ramrod straight, as if bracing himself for a painful blow. “Or I can do it for you.”

Peter’s jaw was set; anger was visibly pulsing through his marrow. He did not chance a glance at Stiles, although Stiles horribly wished he would, to comfort or reassure if not to speak.

“You had no right to expose this knowledge to him,” said Peter in a grim whisper. “It was mine alone to share—”

“You never would have.”

“You speak of what you do not know! I had planned to, when the time was right, when the news could be broken gently—to frighten him as you have thus done, it is horrendous!”

“When is the time ever right for such a confession? After your wedding, when deep in the midst of marriage bliss? Only when he was forever tied to you as your husband would you have admitted your beasthood, so he would no choice but to stay, or forever be condemned as a man who goes back on his word, his vow?”

Derek Hale shook his head. Disgust seemed to grab him as he moved to uncork the noxious vial, but Peter sprung before he could. He lunged, an inhuman howl breaking from his lips, and knocked the vial aside; it smashed against the wall in a cloud of purple dust. When he had turned once more, the robust ease with which Peter Hale, the human, moved and spoke was gone—in its place was a primitive creature, half man, half wolf. Claws had grown where fingernails had previously resided, rabid teeth had sprouted in his mouth, hair had grown long and coarse on his jaw, and a deranged animal possessed Peter’s frame; the calm, distinct man that had existed before had been overrun.

It was all unerringly true. It was no spun tale. Stiles felt weak, as if he had just been witness to a disaster. Derek Hale, soon, was also transformed into half a man, and a show of virile force battered between them like a storm as they sparred, plunges and strikes that drew no blood slashing between their wrestling bodies. Peter seemed intent to hurt, but his nephew did not engage—his attacks remained defensive, blocking the strongest of blows that Peter attempted to deliver. They were equal matches in combat, and before long, the violence faded as Peter sputtered a fierce snarl, drew back, held counsel with himself, and reappeared with newfound resolve formed. The fur rescinded, as did claw and tooth.

Now once again back into man, Peter seemed to remember Stiles’ presence in the room—he turned to him and reached, as if to rivet Stiles to his waist, but Stiles stepped back in a haste. He could hardly fathom what he had just seen, let alone formulate coherent words, but he knew it would be too hard a shock to touch Peter with his hand at the moment and not immediately wake from a nightmare.

“My boy,” Peter said. Regret colored his tone. “You must allow me to explain.”

Explain! Stiles felt faint. They were far beyond simple explanations. Peter’s face revealed such deep inner torment, such remorse, that Stiles felt trapped in sympathy for a moment’s notice before having the courage to push himself free.

“Stiles, you must understand,” pleaded Peter.

Down the hall, Stiles could make out, quite clearly, music: a wedding march, except he was nowhere near the altar, and feared he never would be again. He glanced into Peter’s stormy eyes and looked away again once more; to meet his gaze now was too intense, and he was vulnerable.

“I don’t,” said Stiles. The words sounded hollow as he spoke them.

“Let me speak to you. Explain.”

Derek Hale stepped in. “He needs time to process, Peter,” he murmured.

Peter was uncaring; he reached out, as if convinced by Stiles’ flat speech and paling flesh—for he could feel the blood traveling from his head and leaving him sickly white—that he was little more than an automaton rather than the real man. His hand curled around Stiles’ wrist, but Stiles recoiled most violently.

His world was tipped, no longer a steady surface beneath him; he fell prey to anxiety and panic of a high caliber, and soon the floor roughly greeted his knees. He was spinning from the force of the shock that had been delivered to his sternum, and breath was coming in short and ragged into his lungs. Voices spoke around him, worried and low, but did not pacify him: it felt as if no assuaging or gentle touches would ever be strong enough to lift him from the terror he had sunk into. His life had been torn properly in half—the time in which the world was peaceful and Stiles had no knowledge of the creature that he had loved so obvliously, and the time after, when all illusions of harmony had been splintered. He knew they could not be repaired.

Mr. Hale was bent low to speak with him, but he soon retreated—his nephew, it turned out, had pulled him back—and Stiles was left to gulp in air that did little to alleviate his suffering no better than a placebo could have. More voices joined theirs soon enough—the minister, perhaps, or Mrs. McCall, or the other who had been waiting for the ceremony to commence—although Stiles heard little more than a blur of syllables.

He all but ran to his chambers, despite the fact that the room was hideously cold with disuse; he had spent most of his time in Mr. Hale’s quarters since their betrothal, the majority of his personal belongings and garments no longer in his own room as a consequence of that.

Nothing but a few summertime garments still sat in his former closet, all of them thin pieces that would very quickly reduce Stiles to shivers in this weather within such a cool home, but he put it on regardless, finding it necessary above all to remove all traces of his groom’s attire as quickly as possible. He tossed each piece on the bed before finding the crumpled, abandoned fabric to be making a mockery of him, watching him pace about the room as if possessing eyes, at which point Stiles cast off the offending garments onto the floor behind the trunk of his things by the corner, now nearly empty. He knew exactly where each item sat down the hall in Mr. Hale’s room, but he refused to face the man, let alone leave the sanctuary his chambers provided for him.

He knew not how long he walked and forth; he nearly assumed that the wooden floorboards would be well-worn with use by the time he finished. Emotions swarmed him like hornets, coming first in a cloud of regret, which transitioned into depression, which slid into anger, which ultimately became hollow, leaving Stiles to feel as if someone had constructed him of wood and forgotten to add vital human organs on the interior. He wished to feel a hammer crush down on him as if he _were_ made of wood, as if he were nothing more than a puppet, a toy built as easily as it was destroyed. His soul felt weary, a rock in his rib cage, and he knew the feeling would persist until he left Hale House and all the revolting memories he now associated with it, washing aside all the good that Stiles knew, rationally, existed, but could hardly remember.

He ignored the knocks on his door that followed over the hours. The first set was soft, undoubtedly Mrs. McCall, but Stiles remembered all too well her judgment of his engagement to Mr. Hale, and he wished not to hear her mention her unfortunately accurate prediction of its ending again now. The second set was harder, a telltale sign that Mr. Hale had grown tired of waiting. It threw Stiles into a rage; who was his master to not give him the time to digest the day’s horrid events? He still felt horribly lightheaded, dizzy and miserable enough to make him not want to walk over to the door.

The lock, however, did little in keeping Mr. Hale out; within a few minutes of Stiles steadfastly ignoring the fervent knocking, the knob was forced open, revealing his haggard-looking master in the shadows of the doorway. Stiles wanted desperately not to see him, not to look upon those eyes which he loved without abandon, but his resolve suffered cracks as he took in Mr. Hale’s wild form, usual traces of composure and arrogance gone in favor of despondence, fury, and desperation. Stiles averted his eyes to the window, where the moon was already beginning to take claim of the sky. For how long had he shut himself in this room, pacing endlessly?

“My dear boy,” said Mr. Hale. He sounded hoarse, as if he had spent the last hour shouting at people who dared to question him about the ruined nuptials. “I did so wish you wouldn’t have felt it necessary to hide.”

Stiles said nothing; words suddenly felt oddly empty, lacking the integrity and the weight he longed to have in his speech. The language he spoke was weak, as it did a terrible job at cobbling together the thoughts he now wanted to verbalize, leaving nothing but a dry quiet in its wake.

“For Christ’s sake, speak aloud,” Mr. Hale commanded. “A man who talks so very much as you do ought to speak now when his words count the most. Declare your hatred for me if you must.”

The very idea was laughable! Stiles could not hate the man in front of him; his brain urged him to on behalf of his lacerated heart, but his heart pumped ever still, still suffocated with affection for his master. He wanted to laugh, wanted to make it clear that his love burned as brightly as Stiles assumed it always would, but another part of him knew it to be unwise to admit to such emotions, for they were too forgiving for what Mr. Hale deserved.

“I have little to say, except that I am hurt.”

“By my dishonesty.”

“Dishonesty can be overlooked; it is distrust that cannot.”

“I trust you deeply, Stiles.”

Stiles shook his head. “Perhaps you yourself believe the words to be true, but your actions negate them. You did not confide in me your secret, of the beast you can be, and I doubt you would have ever had your nephew not revealed it.”

Mr. Hale stepped closer now, grabbing the hands that Stiles had not realized he had begun to wring and fidget.

“I offer you the truth now, in its barest forms.”

“You cannot offer a gift that has already been opened, sir.”

“Enough of that—infernal word!” Mr. Hale shouted, his temperament changing like the pull of the tides and his grip on Stiles’ fists tightening to a point of near pain. “ _Sir_. You are no longer my butler, but the man I love, the man who agreed to be my husband. Do not bother with such formalities!”

“But I no longer agree,” said Stiles. The admission was as hollow as it was true; he no longer felt like a groom. He felt, inexorably, as if he were back to his previous standing, nothing more than a staff member, a man of lower value. “The situation has been changed, not even as much by the nature of the secret but the existence of it in the first place.”

“You are punishing me, Stiles, but it is unfair to do so,” said Mr. Hale. His eyes were lit with a wildfire; never before had he looked so much the part of the wolf that lurked within. “I am the same man I was one day earlier, or one week, or one month. Tell me, what part of me has changed? My soul remains unmoved.”

“You are a coin, a halved man! And I have only ever been permitted to see one side, one part.” He turned his head to look up at Mr. Hale and felt his misery wither away into untethered anger; it clawed its way up his frame until he was consumed by righteous indignation. “You are a monster, in spirit as much as in body.”

At first, Mr. Hale appeared as if struck, the words delivering a blow that flashed pain over him, but soon, the hurt was replaced by an unmatched stoniness.

“Yes, I am indeed that,” he agreed. “And you are the boy who loves the monster—is it better to be one more than the other?”

“I must leave,” muttered Stiles.

“No, you mustn’t,” Mr. Hale said, seizing Stiles’ elbow and imprisoning it in his grip. “You must stay—you must listen to reason.”

“Your sense of reason and mine are different, sir. There is a wide chasm between them.”

“Then perhaps you will listen to something else—aggression?” Mr. Hale offered. His eyes had grown beast-like, aflame with a fury that Stiles could see the wolf in. Had it lurked there all the while? Had it always been concealed behind a meticulously constructed curtain of secrecy? How blind Stiles must have been to have never suspected it, to have trusted so wholly and unerringly.

No, he had to leave. It was suffocation to be down here, enveloped in Mr. Hale’s frantic regret, smothered by the urgency of his words that still held little apology. All of the house seemed to thrum with such an air and it was torturous to endure it; Stiles ached once more for the safety of his own room, which protected him little from his own dreadful thoughts but did manage to protect him from his master’s wild desperation. He rose to his feet, shaking.

“I must go,” said he, again.

Mr. Hale’s hand grasped his wrist, the touch too tight. “Nonsense!” he growled. The very words seemed to reverberate off the walls. “No one demands you leave! No one asks you to abandon your post, yet you act as if you are forced!”

His look was that of a man driven to insanity, a man about to dive into irreversible waters, into wild license. Stiles was reminded of his hot-tempered nature, most likely bolstered by the beast within, and knew he had stoked it terribly with his refusal to cooperate, but through his abject misery, Stiles felt liberated through his own resolution to not bend.

“Give me the night,” he said; his own voice was hoarse with unshed tears.

“What will you do with it?”

“I can hardly think, sir, while you prounce around me like a deranged animal!” cried Stiles. “You are too frenzied, too mad, and I am near panic myself. Leave me, and let me think, leave me to my thoughts. They are tumultuous enough without your presence to worsen them.”

Mr. Hale’s mouth twitched; he wanted to deny the request, it was clear, but even as Stiles could see the wolf howling in his eyes, reddened by the corners from fury and ravenous energy alike, he saw the human fight for control.

“Not more than a night,” he said, and left the room.

It was as if a dust storm had passed through after Peter shut the door, leaving nothing but stirred emotion and disaster in its wake. Stiles sunk to the floor, wishing the future to be full of simple decisions but knowing it could not be. There was no easy choice to make, and although he strived to reach one he felt confident about, it would not come, not even as night enveloped the house in a dark embrace. He wept and calmed, alternating between the two in hysterical fits, until his eyes were swollen and his head felt raw.

How could leave Peter, who had become an integral component of his very being? But how could he be expected to stay, when the common ground their relationship had been built on had been so rocked by subterfuges? It was an impossible dilemma; no matter which avenue he pursued, he would break his own heart as much as he would Peter’s.

He would never be able to look into Mr. Hale’s handsome face again and think of anything but the creature inside, of the lie that hid it. Facing any of the others would be just as difficult—Mrs. McCall, he believed, had never fully supported the union, and would most likely drown him in unbidden pity. No matter how long he considered the circumstances, he was always led to the same end, and knew that there would be no workaround to the fractures that had fragmented them as a couple. He could not stay. He could not damn himself to such a life.

The rain had yet to cease. Wind fell around Hale House, the sound a wild, melancholy hail. It was a horrible sound to listen to, and Stiles felt it echoed the sensations of his heart; there too, a ravenous wind whipped round him, whining high and miserable,

He was packed under the hour, all his belongings strapped together in a paltry pile. It occurred to him just how little he was without Mr. Hale and the great estate, how much his personality and sense of self was wrapped up in it, in the walls, in the stones, in the man he was allowed to be here. His material possessions spoke little of him, his memories far outdoing the riches he had never acquired here at the Hale House, but all of that was to come to a close now.

By complete nightfall, the house was silent. Stiles was expectant of Mr. Hale to be a resistant force, unwilling to allow Stiles’ fleeing, but the hallways outside his quarters were unmanned by anyone aside from the moon, which cast little but a gray light amid the sylvan dusk that had crept into the windows. 

He had hoped for a quick, easy escape, and kept his noises to a minimum. He stepped softly, shut his bedroom door softly, and uttered not a word, even as gathered wetness began to congeal in his throat, begging to push whining sobs forward at the prospect of leaving a most beloved home. Stiles repressed them, and hoped to quench all further displays of emotion that may expose his escape and alert Mr. Hale of them. He hurried down the hall and descended the steps in haste.

“Mr. Stilinski,” said a voice from the shadows by the staircase, at which point the junior Mr. Hale appeared, expression grim. Stiles was brimming with anger for the man: although not his fault, it was he who decided to put a stop to Stiles’ wedding and what should’ve been an exuberant, thrilling day in his life, and Stiles cared little if is meddling was born out of authentic concern.

“Mr. Hale.”

“You’re leaving,” said he. It was not a question, but an observation made as his eyes raked over the paltry bag of things curled in his fist.

“If you expected me to stay, then—” Stiles stopped speaking, no longer trusting his throat to do it properly. A deep, rattling breath did little to ease the oncoming emotion that was already clenching him tightly. “I will not be made a fool. Do not stand in my way—you! You who has exposed this treachery to me ought not to hinder my departure.”

“Calm yourself,” implored Mr. Hale. The hush he spoke in reminded Stiles of his own growing volume, rising with his intensity. “I offer assistance if you require it.”

“I do not follow.”

“It is unwise for you to run as you are, penniless and slight, but run, you will, regardless of wisdom—I can do little but offer my help for as long as it will suffice.”

“I require none of it.”

“You do.”

“I do not,” Stiles insisted, pride and obstinateness coming together most powerfully for him, overtaking all matters of modesty or acceptance. To take charity from the man who was responsible for pulling the sheet from the stage that housed his very happiness—little more than a farcical play, it seemed—was a line Stiles was unwilling to cross. “You cannot anyway.”

“I can. I can fund your stay wherever you are headed.”

“What motivates you to offer such services?”

“My uncle would want it so. To know you are suffering after being at fault for so much of your turmoil would wound him greatly.”

Mr. Hale’s stoic face belied his warm sentiment. Stiles felt it to be nonsensical to trust a man so close to the heart of what had lacerated him so deeply, no matter how sincerely he spoke of providing aid for his fleeing of the Hale House. It occurred to him that perhaps he was bring puppeteered, that he had been unwittingly cast in a great plot, and that by leaving, he was awarding the mastermind responsible with the resolution they sought and had expected. It was overly complicated thinking, however, and Stiles had little use or time for any needs but his own, which were currently to vacate the premises as quickly as possible.

Obstinance and pride won out in the end: Stiles refused to acquiesce to Mr. Hale’s offers. To be indebted to the man would be a mistake, to say nothing of his dignity, which demanded not to be made a fool by accepting handouts that were most likely the product of Mr. Hale’s own overbearing guilt.

“I require no assistance,” he insisted. “Your offer is generous, but unnecessary. Now if you’ll excuse me.”

He wanted nothing from Mr. Hale—the man had meddled enough, and instilled a despondence in him so deep he felt no happiness could ever touch it, for it had bore a cave in his heart that felt far removed from the carefree nature that once abounded there. If Stiles’ farewell was not Mr. Hale’s intent, then what could he have possibly hoped for? It was foolish to expect a different outcome.

He risked saying goodbye to no one else at Hale House; if he roused too many, he risked his former betrothed awakening and interfering with his escape, who, in his wild grief, might be angered enough to chain Stiles to the very house and keep him captive. He stopped only at the kitchen to grab leftover bread from the night prior to fuel his journey, and Derek Hale did not follow him. He was not certain what would have been worse: to have been trailed, and fed an unlikely story thick with apologies and excuses, or being let go without another word pleading him to reconsider.

Pockets stocked with what would pass as a small meal, Stiles hurried out the front door; to dally now would be to test his resolve, which was already weakening each moment he approached the end of his time at Hale House. It was dreadfully short, but still felt eternities long, each second sweeter than the last, up until the appalling epilogue. Each step he took out into the cold night air urged him to turn and return whence he came, into the warmth, into the comfort offered not just by the home, but by Peter, who, upon thinking of the morning he would undoubtedly experience, in which he would discover Stiles to be gone like a ghost in the night, would unleash either a heartsick gloom or a spiked fury inside him.

The trek he was undertaking was sure to be as long as it was aimless. Stiles had no goal in mind, simply to rid himself of a countryside that looked familiar, that reminded him of Hale House and all the memories he had grown inside it. Perhaps he could search for some of the friends he had made while he was at school, and they would spare him room.

It was well past midday when Stiles felt it necessary to come to a stopping point. He had been walking for the entirety of the morning, blinking back glossy eyes that threatened to spill over, zig-zagging through pathways to keep from being followed by Mr. Hale or someone under his order lest he was being tracked. He didn’t know if an extraordinary sense of smell was an ability that the werewolf was granted—actually, he knew nothing of the wolf at all, and wanted nothing to do with it in the slightest—but wanted to avoid being tracked at all costs.

He had begun to regret having asked so few questions. The walk allowed him the time to think extensively, most thoroughly, yet Stiles jumped primarily back to the behemoth of mysteries: the fable of the lycanthrope he had been harshly introduced to yesterday.

Emotions wracked him mercilessly as the cold whipped around him and the countryside stretched onward; frequently he was seized by the intuition to return and go back whence he came, erase his steps and the hurt he was sure to cause to his master, but his legs would not turn, and his body would not trek backwards. To return would be to forgive, to confirm his acceptance of his almost-husband's treachery and secrecy, and Stiles was still hard and crisp, as if burnt by the flame, from the event. He carried onward, and did not let himself think of Peter.

It was not until evening rose and afternoon faded that glens and fields faded and Stiles entered civilization once more as a town came into view. Hunger had begun to nip at him like an insatiable beak, but he had no cure for it but the fruit he pilfered from the Hale House kitchen in the morning. The morning! It seemed a true lifetime ago, if not more. Tiny rooftops shone brown in the distance, larger and larger as Stiles picked up speed and hurried, and ere long he was engulfed in a village sporting taverns, guesthouses, and shuttered cabins. Stiles knocked on the doors of a few of them and inquired after his friends from the institute; none of the current lodgers knew their names or whereabouts, and a few seemed quite spooked of him and his questions. He did, he supposed, look a bit like a vagrant, and perhaps he was no better than one now, or a beggar, or a vagabond. The majesty of Hale House was in his past now, and no amount of nostalgia or longing would return it to his present, although he hardly knew, if given the chance to experience it all over again, if he would choose to do so, given the knowledge he now knew of the owner of Hale House. Had he known of the beast that lurked behind closed walls, would he have faithfully resided there regardless? Would he have continued to pledge loyalty to his duties? Would he have fallen in love with Peter just the same?

By nightfall, he had grown weak with hunger, as the provisions he had packed had not provided him with much energy. His hope had begun to wane that he would stumble over a long lost friend from his days of schooling, and soon he realized that he would have no reprieve in the warmth of a cabin or lodge that night; instead, his bed was a bench behind a closed bakery.

Footsteps aroused him at dawn; workers were already traversing the streets to begin shifts at work, and all who passed him offered no more than looks of disparagement. He must have looked repugnantly disheveled at this point after his night on the bench, and indeed, his back ached terribly as he sat—the night had not been restful, for the bench had been damp from rain and the air had been cold. The bakery behind him was just beginning to wake—the baker was only just tying off his apron and dusting the shelves when Stiles rose. He could afford no pastry or bread in the store, but chanced the bins behind the shop. Day-old buns were inside along with other refuse, but Stiles’ hunger cared not for anything but the sight of a meal, no matter how paltry, and he ate the leftover buns with voracious intent.

He was sure that if he kept moving forward, he would find a familiar face, a kin to rely on. If not, where could he possibly turn, with no living family? Would the hostels have room? Would they aid in his search for a job? To wander forever, he knew, was not a viable option. It was terrifying to be cut adrift from every connection as he now was, the charm of adventure long worn off, and he ached for the luxuries he had begun to take for granted at Hale House, such as a clean bed and a warm fire.

The town drifted into a distant block of unmoving houses behind him soon enough, and he was back to passing through desolate fields lined with rock-ridden roads. The ground here was soft, still wet from the storms that had ravaged the land the last few days, and the damp soil soaked through Stiles’ shoes. His feet were wet within first few hours of walking, and the cold only continued to course upward through his body, already weak from his poor night of rest.

Regret had begun to color him, but he had gone too far; he had no recollection of the path he had thus far walked, and would most likely not be able to return to Hale House without the aid of a coach, one he knew he could not afford. He had taken care to walk in a most original pattern, stray from roads and paths in an effort to not be followed, but he had lamented the decision now.

He wondered, most deplorably, if life was soon to no longer be in his possession. Cold had begun to infiltrate his being as sharply as hunger and thirst had, and the desire to yield to the fatigue that gripped him was growing ever more demanding. No life but pasture fields and hills surrounded him, no church bell sounded, no horses passed by. He had no hope of finding shelter or work here, but knew not which way to turn—every possible direction had as little life in the distance as did the next.

Nightfall fell again before Stiles could keep track of the hours. His strength failed him, and steps were heavy by the time the moon held reign over the sky. He could not choose if rest would revive him or pull him inescapably under at this point, but the grass, cool and damp as it was, looked as good as any bed ever did. He would welcome a hermit’s meal at this point, or polluted waters, but no such offerings passed him.

He sank to his knees. Was this his punishment, perhaps, for failing to remain with the man he had promised his livelihood and love to? Had he, without intending to, ruined them both?

The ground received him without his knowledge. The dirt was frozen, but little cooler than Stiles already was. His vision swam, and exhaustion claimed him most viciously. He wanted to succumb to the ground, to the hunger that consumed him, and he allowed it to even as his spirit roared for aid.

He had no conception of how much time passed. There were moments when he perceived flickers of reality: the rustle of trees, the humming of wind, the promising rumble of thunder, but these moments were equally balanced with nothingness, with silence and a black debility that seized him and held him above the earth.

A cool hand touched his cheek; the feeling was jarring, as it alerted Stiles to his own fever as the cold palm moved over to his forehead. Stiles attempted to speak, to open his mouth and utter something, anything, but found he lacked the strength.

“Can you move?” a man was asking, his voice a deep, English tenor. “Do you require help?”

Stiles could not find the energy to even assent, and hoped that his inability to do so answered the question in his stead. Through his lidded eyes, he could make out little but blur, and saw through the fog, he identified fair hair and a mature face bent close to his own, creased deeply in concern.

“Nod yes or no. Are you in need of shelter? Food?”

Stiles moved his chin; he seemed to be successful enough that his message was received. Within moments, he was heaved off the hard, frozen earth and into a pair of unyielding arms.

The rest of the journey was a cloud, and Stiles could make out only little details, not even if it had been performed solely on foot or also by carriage. He was shivering by the time the swaying of travel stopped, and nearly damp in the drizzle that had begun to trickle downward from overhead. He was erring on the side of properly wet when a gate creaked open, loud in the quiet countryside he imagined himself to be in. Opening his eyes was too big a bother by now, his energy waning with great speed.

He was only vaguely aware of voices murmuring around him, speaking to him or perhaps each other, and new hands—softer, he thought—feeling along the curve of his wrist to feel for his sluggish pulse. He was carried, limp and frozen, through the front door of a house before he was laid on a bed and immediately gave way to unconsciousness that he flitted in and out of.

“Fetch water, and be swift, Ethan,” said the same deep voice that had spoken to him before.

“Is he dying?” said another.

“No. One can smell it—he is merely ill, starved, and requires assistance.”

“Wherever did you find him?”

“Collapsed in the field a mile off.”

A cool glass was pressed to his lips a moment later, and his neck gently tipped forward to receive the drink. It was water, and Stiles was not even aware of just how desperately he craved it until it slid down his throat, soothing it. He drank eagerly until the glass was pulled from his mouth, after which a satiated darkness became to creep around the edges of his being. He was unthinkingly tired, and the cushions beneath him offered a soft resting spot when paired with the warmth of the nearby fire.

He surrendered to resting his eyes, and soon felt consciousness fall from him like raindrops.

\--

His torpor did not fade fast. Stiles was unaware just how long he spent bedridden, only aware of the barest of sensations and sounds, such as unintelligible murmuring by the doorway—most likely regarding his condition—and water brought to his lips every now and then. It could easily have been hours or weeks in equal measure, if not an entire season. Time was a concept that eluded him as he slept, the sheets blanketing him continuously feeling much too hot on his body; it did not even occur to him that he was suffering from a fever until a cool damp cloth was pressed to his forehead, rousing him from yet more swimmy dreams. The details always floated away upon awakening like ink dissolving in water, leaving him with little but lingering emotions that seized him so roughly around the middle that Stiles knew they could be derived of nothing but Mr. Hale’s presence in his slumber. It was painful even to dream of him, to see a figment of him as he slept, but Stiles’ nightmares did not relent.

A while passed before Stiles awoke feeling less ill, but more famished than ever. He knew not how much time had passed, only that a few days must’ve: he observed, if nothing else, many suns and moons taking claim of the sky during the moments he sat up and opened his eyes for little more than a sip of water. His throat was hoarse, his body boneless from disuse, and his eyes sandy from too much sleep, but he knew sustenance was a matter he would need to tend to sooner rather than later.

He awoke in midday to a dark room; curtains had been drawn over the window to ease the depth of Stiles’ never-ending slumber, but a sliver of bright afternoon light still managed to peek out around the hung fabric to give Stiles a notion of the time. A shadow was roaming about his room as well, laying out freshly laundered clothes and a few pieces to be loaned on the desk across the room, and even when the figure turned, stepping into the light, Stiles had difficulty identifying his features.

“You have awoken,” the figure said: he had a light, accented tone to his voice that matched his visage. As he stepped closer still, Stiles caught a glimpse of sandy hair and deep-set eyebrows, a man easily the same age as himself. “You really ought to eat.”

He turned on his heel and quitted the room. Stiles would’ve assumed him finished with the conversation and his interest in Stiles had he not been able to hear him through the walls asking someone—Stiles presumed the cook—for fresh milk and bread. He returned moments later through the creaking door, food and drink in hand.

“Not too much, Aiden thinks,” said the man. “He says you can only handle digesting so much after eating so little for so long.”

Stiles could do little but shake his head: the days of sleep he had been bogged down with and lack of food left him weary. “Not so long,” he insisted; the hoarse sound of his own speech surprised him. “I am not a beggar.”

He was certain that this was the impression the house’s inhabitants assumed of him. Stiles could not blame them; after all, he had appeared on their doorstep in ragged, rain-soaked clothing and nearly perished from starvation. He remembered little of the rescue save for the filmy faces that had flitted around his peripherals, and the Englishman whom had brought him here, although he had little clue of where _here_ was. The details eluded him.

“Aiden said as much as well,” the man continued. “He noticed that your clothes were hardly those of an impoverished man.”

Stiles noticed at that moment that he was no longer wearing any of his clothes, but was rather tucked into the sheets in little more than his undergarments. He spotted his clothes soon afterwards, however, as the ones freshly hanging from the doorway as if left out to dry—indeed, the disservice the mud and rain had done to the fabric had been washed out. Shocked by the kindness of the people he had stumbled upon, Stiles was about to speak his gratitude aloud when a glass of milk was pressed to his mouth.

“Go on,” the man encouraged.

Stiles did not reject the offer. He drank gently, then heartily from the glass, right up until it was pried carefully from his fingers for fear of surprising his stomach with too much all at once. He was then handed the bread, which, still warm in his hand, was the recently created work of an accomplished baker, as the bun was easily one of the most satisfying things he had ever eaten, although Stiles admitted that his overbearing hunger might’ve been responsible for that declaration.

The candle carried by his new companion was thrust in his face afterwards, as if checking him for signs of impending death. He seemed to pass the examination favorably, because the man tending to him smiled and announced, “You're looking less like the plague now, which everyone will be overjoyed to hear.”

“Everyone?”

“They’re all in the sitting room. Come out and introduce yourself once you’re feeling up for it.”

“I am,” Stiles assured him; even weak, his curiosity overrode his fatigue and malnourishment, and he was more than anxious to see his benefactors now that his mind was present once more and his body was no longer in threat of fainting. He sat up, pushing the sheets aside, but was stopped.

“Do not injure yourself,” he was sternly advised. “If you require more sleep—”

“I have slept for eternities,” Stiles argued. He was sated of repose, and no longer wanted to infringe on the hospitality of people he knew nothing of. 

He followed the man out the door and down a staircase. As someone who had grown accustomed to the splendor of Hale House, the rooms around him seemed rather quaint and modest in comparison, the home more of a cottage than a mansion, but in its smallness it retained a comfortable warmth that seemed to live among the walls.

The sitting room made the bedroom Stiles had been sleeping in seen like an overheated coffin; the rest of the house was well-lit, smelled of baked goods, and was occupied with conversing inhabitants that were deep in a game of chess being played by the fireside. Upon Stiles’ entry, the two men bent over the game immediately pivoted their attention to him; one even stood up in acknowledgment. Now in bright light, it was easy to see that he and the man who Stiles spoke with by the bed were physically identical, harboring the same strong jaw and small nose. The other man engrossed in the chess game was significantly older than the pair of twins, with fair hair, blue eyes, and an authoritative aura that commanded the room effortlessly; Stiles instantly assumed him to be the master of the house and recalled him to be the Englishman who brought him out from the inclement weather.

“Our guest rises at last,” he spoke. His voice was accented—British, as Stiles had recollected—and bent low into a pleasing depth, matching the assertive nature that exuded from his body language. “We had begun to worry.”

“Thank you, sir,” Stiles said after a moment’s pause. The atmosphere the man emanated, although serene, was dictatorial in a way that reminded Stiles of his former master, and caused him to falter in his speech. “Your generosity has not gone unnoticed or unthanked. Allowing me into your home—”

The man waved him off instantly, eyes pulled back to the chessboard. “Say nothing of it. It was done out of basic decency,” he said. “Had we not given you shelter, you would’ve been dead on our doorstep the following morning. I am sure of it.”

“And I am grateful for your help.”

“I am sure of that as well,” the man said. He moved a piece on the board, then spared Stiles, still likely pale and thin, with an inquisitive glance. “My name is Deucalion, and it appears you’ve met Ethan, and here is his brother Aiden. This is my property. May I have the pleasure of knowing who I have rescued?”

“My name is Mieczyslaw Stilinski,” Stiles said. “Stiles is the name I more frequently am attributed.”

“Mieczyslaw will do,” Deucalion said with another wave of the hand. “Your name is Polish in origin, is it not?”

“Yes, my ancestors originated there.”

“And somehow you wound up here as a beggar in the countryside?”

“I’m not a beggar,” said Stiles. He knew it would be imprudent to openly showcase his irritation after now being accused of destitution twice since, after all, he was now indeed no better or bigger than a beggar, and had been ever since leaving Beacon Hills. “I am a butler.”

He felt himself twitch, realizing the lie in his statements. Perhaps speaking in past tense would be a habit he should grow accustomed to, as he might very well be a cook or a teacher or a gardener ere long if he managed to find vocation available to him. His butler days were possibly very well lodged in his past, and as if striking him with lightning, Stiles became instantly aware of a stinging pain that originated deep in his heart at the idea of his forecast being true. It was not only his time as a butler he would be leaving behind, but his time with Mr. Hale as well—just thinking of him sent fresh pain through Stiles’ body, images of his prior master’s austere, scarred face fading into cocky wit assaulting his mind’s eye unbidden.

“I said as much myself,” said the brother sat by the chess table, Ethan. “He did not wear the clothes of an impoverished nomad, nor did he carry himself like one.”

“He was dying of thirst and crippled with exhaustion when we first spoke to him!” his twin rebutted. “I hardly think the way he carried himself at the time did little but inform us of just how dire his situation was.”

“Enough,” spoke Deucalion. “Do not occupy yourself with pointless quarrels. Our guest requires attention.”

“Oh, hardly,” Stiles interjected. “I merely wanted to introduce myself—”

“Nonsense. You must be fed.”

Stiles, despite his awareness that nourishment was essential for him as even his legs began to feel uncertain underneath him as he stood, wanted to insist that the bread he had consumed earlier had been enough, for he knew that it would not be long before he would be asked about his whereabouts and, presumably, where to return him. The cold realization that he had nowhere to return to left him hollow, for he was already in pure agony over how much he missed the friends he had left behind at Hale House, to say nothing of the man he had so fiercely loved. Even with his terrible betrayal of Stiles’ trust, the love that burned there could not be so quickly extinguished and turned to ash, for even when the hot emotions whittled away, from the ash drew a rejuvenated thing, an invincible recreation of his consistent love. He still loved Peter ardently, wished to be back in his home watching Peter settle into his leathered chair for an evening of reading, and Stiles knew the affection would not dissipate—on the contrary, he feared it would never release its haunt on him.

The strangers before him, as generous as they had proven themselves to be, could not be the receivers of his history, not when it still pained Stiles as much as it did to think of his own past. Oh! How outrageous it was that a mere few days ago, Stiles was prepared to be wed, and now he had returned to his former plainness, his destined unhappiness, or so it seemed.

A dark shadow of brooding thought must have passed over Stiles’ face, as none of the inhabitants of the parlor proceeded to push Stiles for information as he had been so certain they wanted to. Deucalion called for tea and soup, gentle food that he assured Stiles would work harmoniously with his weakened stomach, and he was guided into a chair that received him easily.

“You are still ever so sickly looking,” noted Aiden.

“Allow nature to fulfill its duties,” said Deucalion. “You must return to bed after the meal.” Stiles opened his mouth to protest, but Deucalion held up a halting hand. “Whatever duties of courtesy you feel you must bestow us can wait. We will have plenty opportunities to acquaint ourselves once you are in a stronger condition.”

Deucalion rose, abandoning the chessboard. He carried himself, Stiles noted, with a graceful ease that was familiar to him; it spoke of a sophistication that Peter had easily possessed. The remembrance was like an arrow to the chest, driven further in the longer he studied Deucalion’s poise.

Stiles returned to his room, aided by one of the twins. Even with sleep having taken up many of his days, it still came easily to him once more as he settled among the sheets.

\--

Life away from the Hale House progressed, astoundingly, nearly pleasantly, as his companions were diligent in distracting Stiles away from the storm cloud of guilt, confusion, and anger that teased him like demons ever since leaving his former master’s residence. The two twins were incredibly astute and highly active men who, as Stiles’ condition improved and he took to staring out the window into the countryside as they ran about outdoors, enjoyed daily sparring and running out in the field behind the house. Stiles watched them frequently, how they would circle and corner each other like calculating predators, waiting for the precise moment when pouncing would be successful, and found their animalistic rituals to be strangely soothing. They were a good pair, brothers who drew from their familial strength, and Stiles found it astonishingly easy to become the third member in their duo as they invited him to join in during meals and woodwork as Stiles’ health improved.

Their acceptance of him only grew as he took to spending less time recuperating in the confines of his room. After many-a-luncheons in which the twins referred to Stiles, repeatedly, by his given name, Stiles had begged for them to speak to him as his friends did—that is, call him by his chosen name—and they relented. That was that, and easily henceforth, they were friends.

The head of the household was not nearly as approachable. Despite his unchanging understanding of Stiles’ situation and lack of inquisition regarding his whereabouts—although Stiles did catch Ethan and Aiden exchange looks of scorching curiosity when they believed Stiles to be otherwise occupied more than once by now—Deucalion did not seem drawn to Stiles in the least, turning to him not for conversation, entertainment, or demands. He hardly regarded Stiles’ presence in his cottage at all, his indifference drawing a cool line between them that Deucalion had no interest in crossing.

It was made swiftly clear that Deucalion drew forth the atmosphere of the house: his presence demanded respect and quiet, smothering to a degree, that even managed to rein in the boundless energy of the twins. He was by far not an entertainer or one who found strength in the spirits of others—in the months that passed, not one houseguest appeared for as little as afternoon tea. No parlor games graced the sitting room, silent except for the crackling of a perpetually well-kindled fire, and despite his best attempts to not give in to the evils of comparison, Stiles found himself, daily, wandering back to the silvery laughter that used to live inside the Hale House. Oh! How he ever once thought that the estate was as cool as a crypt, as dark as a shadowed forest, was difficult to comprehend now in hindsight. He longed to recreate the memories of the liveliness that bloomed under the direction of Peter Hale, whether it be games of cards or late night dancing or large dinners.

He began to become well-versed in the art of cooking as he took to spending more time in the kitchen as his restlessness started to set in. Long days spent in solitude were beginning to fool him and play tricks on his mind: whenever it drifted, it always swam straight back to Hale House, and where Mr. Hale would be magnificently standing inside it, and where Stiles would be if he, also, were still at the estate. Perhaps it was fear of realizing that it was unlikely that he would ever see Mr. Hale again that was teasing his mind, torturing it as if picking at a healing wound, and so he threw himself into whatever hobbies were available to him as his strength returned. The kitchen was a safe place to be, perpetually warm from the oven’s use and awaft with enticing scents of freshly prepared meals, and within weeks Stiles had learned the art of preparing meals well beyond the simple tasks he was sometimes given at the Hale House, where skinning meat and chopping vegetables were the most complex undertakings he was allowed. Deucalion was a frequent traveler and brought with him and into the cupboards sundry spices, ones that Stiles took to experimenting with as he became well-versed in the basics of dishes.

His experiments, however, were not always fruitful; as a novice in his newfound field, the results were often inedible and much too sharp for the tongue. Deucalion caught him one day as he cleaned overcooked meat from a pan into the yard, stopping him before the food hit the dirt.

“Why ever are you disposing of our dinner?” he asked.

“It is not our dinner, sir. As a matter of fact, I’ll be surprised if even a stray dog will touch the food.”

Deucalion shook his head, apparently convinced that Stiles was inflicted with a false modesty about his talents. He asked to sample the dish before Stiles lost faith in its success, and proceeded to consume a generous forkful. His opinions were unspoken at first, readable only in the lines between his eyes that appeared as he chewed on the meat.

“Too much parsley,” he commented. “But not a tasteless meal. You have spent time in the kitchen before?”

“No, sir, not until coming here.”

“I scarcely believe it.”

“It is true. In my prior life, I was a butler; I wound clocks and saw to clothing.”

“Your prior life,” Deucalion repeated. “Is it a mystery I shall ever be privy to?”

“Once the story does not pain me as much as it does currently, I will be happy to share it.”

“There is pain in your eyes, that much is certain. What could possibly alleviate it?”

“Your generous spirit and that of Aiden and Ethan has already done an immense amount. I cannot allow you to take responsibility for my happiness after all that you have done—besides, there is ever the possibility than I am not destined to be happy again.”

“Happiness lives inside all of us. It is only a matter of finding it.”

“It is the finding that is the hardest part.”

“Indeed,” agreed Deucalion. He drove a hard stare through Stiles’ eyes as if reading the thoughts that crept beneath. “Especially since so many of us will indeed find it but let it go.”

Stiles nodded; to say more felt as if he would be revealing too much of his own story. He was not entirely sure why, but he felt it prudent to keep it his own, perhaps out of fear that he would be mocked or pitied for what he had undergone and then how he decided to react. Admittedly, he knew not how the situation looked to an outsider, it if was as horrible as he himself felt it was, or if others would laugh off such an incident, particularly at his enduring inability to even spare one thought to his previous master without growing mad with longing and misery.

Even worse still, he was piercingly aware that his very nature was compromised at the cottage. The natural energy that he abounded with at the Hale House and showed itself through repartee and laughter felt disallowed here, not by the twin brothers, but rather by Deucalion—his stern brow and never-smiling mouth carried with them a perpetually grave aura that Stiles knew better than to break. Oh! To think back on those days when Stiles was tucked away inside the Hale House’s library, or helping Mrs. McCall fold napkins in the dining room, or walking round and round the property while Mr. Hale was by his side, sharing a conversation that flowed freely, easily, comfortably between them like a river.

“You seem as if you are despondent over something,” Deucalion remarked. “Wetness glistens in your eyes.”

Stiles meant to deny the accusation, but then a hot tear spilled down his cheek, giving the lie to any refusal of emotion he was planning on espousing.

“I am sometimes struck with just how terribly I miss my father,” Stiles lied, although he supposed a fair amount of truth did lie within the words: he did, after all, pine often for the warmth and empathy that his father always had an abundance of. “It is difficult to be without family.”

“If it is only blood relations you seek, you will never have a family again,” said Deucalion. “But, like happiness, it is something you can choose for yourself.”

Stiles had little response to give to this, unsure if Deucalion was speaking plainly or hinting toward Stiles’ own particular situation, but Deucalion did not seem to mind the absence of a reply, his eyes cast downward on the burnt meat in Stiles’ pot.

“You must try again,” he instructed. “You work well in the kitchen. I am even certain that I could find you employment in such a field. There are larger estates nearby always looking for cooks to fend for large families—”

“No,” Stiles interrupted, but bit down on his tongue; he wished he could take back the impolite haste he had spoken with. He was hardly certain what it was he feared in the first place, except that the situation Deucalion described seemed painfully similar to one he had already endured, and to reenact it once more after having suffering such plights seemed foolish.

“You object most strongly.”

“No, I misspoke. I just favor my current profession more.”

He could tell Deucalion did not believe him. He was drawing out the inevitable: soon, he knew that Deucalion or the twins would demand more answers regarding his past. Once he was well, he ought to continue his journey; happening upon the cottage was a force of luck, but he doubted it was his destiny to stay. He knew he would release far too many secrets inadvertently were he to remain under their care, given they would not ask themselves, and to reveal his past was to peel back a scab on a healing wound and suffer the pain once more. Were he to explain the entire story, it would seem like little more than a child's fairytale—lost love and ancient creatures built of fang and fur! It was a fable that would make its teller seem mad, and Stiles longed for normalcy.

"I will certainly not force you to leave us," said Deucalion. "I believe you are a valuable addition to our small group."

It would have been an extraordinarily kind sentiment, had it not been for the passionless way Deucalion express it. Stiles regarded it as a compliment regardless; to wait for Deucalion to shed his apathy seemed to be a hopeless endeavor.

"Thank you," Stiles said, although he did not feel valuable here, and he hardly felt he was a necessary addition. It was a feeling, he thought, that would never quite fade.

\--

His full recovery took weeks, but even afterward, yet more weeks passed, and the ache in Stiles’ soul did not relent. He was consistently plagued with thoughts of Peter, and he longed to hear of how life at Hale House was faring, if the inhabitants had already recaptured a sense of normalcy after the tornado that was the wedding and grievous aftermath, or if they missed him as much as he missed them.

He decided to write to Hale House in hopes of receiving word from anyone within it. He could not bring himself to address his former master directly. Not only was he at a loss as to what to say to the man, how to bridge the gap the absence had carved out between them, but he knew that he would dread the response from the moment the letter would be out of his grasp and fear the haunting truth that perhaps, Peter did not wish to hear from him at all. It was altogether likely that he had remained in the country, seeking to rid himself entirely of the home and memories that Stiles had infected with his own essence, and Stiles’ epistles would remain eternally unanswered. The never-ending silence would perhaps be as painful as having never sent word at all.

Still, his mind raced nonstop with thoughts of his former home. How he yearned to be little more than a skylark flying by the Hale House windows, catching glimpses of what occurred inward. He had abandoned not just his master when he had hastened from the estate, but also his friends—had they wondered where he had gone? Had Mr. Hale regaled them all with the horrid tale, or kept mum about the botched wedding entirely?

He decided to write to Mrs. McCall. He had thought of her often since his abandonment of Hale House, and missed her maternal sweetness, and hoped that she would regard contact from him as warmly as he did, perhaps even think of him with the same familial affection that he still regarded her with.

He wrote in the privacy of his own quarters, keeping the scratch of his pen as quiet as possible. He knew it was not a crime to reach out to the woman, or anyone else who existed solely in the previous life he had lived, but still felt the judgement of his housemates would bear down on him if they were aware of just how desperately he ached for contact from them, for updates on the state of the estate since his departure.

He asked of her wellness, of her health and that of the cook and the other staff, if the changes in the weather as the year progressed were finding them well. He did his best to contain his eagerness to ask over Mr. Hale, even as his pen shook in his hand in his impatience; he had kept buried deep within his feelings for the man for so long that now, finally tapped, they were threatening to burst forth like a volcano. He felt all at once drunk with the longing that possessed him—how hopelessly he craved for one last touch from the man who had nearly been his husband, one last embrace. He was almost at a point where he could openly scorn his past self, a boy who had run from what he was beginning to lament may have been his lone chance at happiness, the alternative being counterfeit offers or a life of destined solitude.

He walked the letter to the post; he found he enjoyed, more than anything else, walking to and fro town, especially as time passed. It occurred to him on one occasion as he was walking through the pastoral country—spring had come, and when rain was not falling, colors were beginning to appear through the cold air—that he did so to escape the monotony of the cottage, for it had begun to close in on him like a shrinking cavern. Life there did not live up to the exuberance that was kept alive in Hale House, mostly by the spirited master, which Deucalion contrasted by staying exceedingly dispassionate, unaroused by even the liveliest of conversations prompted by the twins. He was a master of his own emotions, controlled by meditation and constant silence, and it created a barrier between Stiles and the home that he knew was not crossable.

On the walk back to the cottage, Stiles took notice of Deucalion sitting in the garden. At first he seemed to be ruminating, eyes drawn to the horizon, but he sat at a table with a chess board laid out on top, considering each of the pieces carefully. He was competing against himself, so Stiles thought it best not to bother him, but as he was heading for the door, Deucalion called out.

“Miecyslaw,” Deucalion murmured. “Have you a moment?”

Stiles assented, and Deucalion gestured to the seat opposite himself. He appeared to be battling his own self in chess as he took control of both the white and black pieces, eyebrows bent deeply inward and hands tight on the rook he had scooped up into fingers. Silence reigned between them for a long quarter hour during which Stiles watched Deucalion navigate the chessboard.

“I believe you have settled in nicely here during your recovery,” said he.

“I have.”

“You have been fully recovered for some time now, do you agree? You seem to have found your strength.”

“I believe I have, sir. If I have worn out the extent of my welcome—”

“I believe it is time we settle your allegiances,” Deucalion spoke. The confidence with which he used his words filled the room whole, leaving little room for resistance. “Are you planning on returning to your previous residence?”

Stiles was quiet; he hadn’t expected the question. He had returned oft to the Hale House in his dreams, mind caught in a wave of familiar smells and pleasing sounds of the voices that belonged to those he had come to love at the estate. But it was a new beginning, which was something Stiles sorely needed.

“No, sir.”

“Good.” Deucalion picked a chess piece up, drawing his thumb over its wooden neck. “I am well aware of your discomfort of the topic. But will you ever feel inclined to disclose what it was that prompted your arrival on our doorstep?”

Stiles chose his words with the utmost caution. “Danger, sir,” he decided to say. “I was up north, and found the landscape too perilous.”

“Up north,” repeated Deucalion. “Ah, yes.” He breathed out slowly. “I have found that the area is often… infested with wolves.”

At the mention of _wolves_ , however casual it may have been, Stiles sat erect, aware of how Deucalion followed the movement with watchful eyes.

“Chess is a wonderful game, is it not?” Deucalion offered, seemingly from nowhere. He had picked up another piece and moved it to a new spot on the board, leaning back in his chair to allow Stiles to consider the playing field. “It truly tests the players’ minds, vexes their senses. It is prudent to keep such things exercised lest they go soft. But imagine such a game without the opportunity to see the whole board.”

Stiles said nothing. He knew without question that Deucalion’s words were cloaked in a preconceived mystery that he alone intended to unravel; the telling of his tale in such a manner was certain to leave Stiles on edge, as it was most likely intended.

“Forgive me, Mieczyslaw, for what has been a relapse in my manners, but I have educated myself on a story you were unwilling to narrate, and thus exposed a privacy you have been anxious to keep close to your chest.”

Stiles’ heart beat with the unspoken words Deucalion was holding at bay. It occurred to him that his life was, once more, destined to change—perhaps he had not gone far enough away from the Hale House during his journey southward, and had foolishly allowed the story of his time in Beacon Hills to travel. He glanced upwards and met Deucalion’s unchanging eyes. Stiles wished he could find warmth in them.

“The narration offered to me was indeed a fantastical tale, but not unbelievable. It spoke of a man your age who acted as a butler to a prominent man in the area. How true does the tale ring so far?”

Stiles did not answer; a consuming chill had settled into his belly. Instead, he said, “Why does my background bother you so?”

“ _Bother_ is not the word I would have chosen.” Deucalion continued without preamble. “The young man soon became engaged to his employer, a wealthy and respected man by the name of Peter Hale, before the marriage was abruptly called off and the boy absconded from the property.”

Who would share such a story! Stiles began to fear that he had not, as he had imagined, wandered far enough from what he used to fondly call home. Rumors, it seemed, were to be his downfall in the fleeting utopia he had built here at the cottage.

“What was unclear, however, was why the man felt the need to leave what was, beyond a shadow of a doubt, the setting for a blissful future, for the beginning of married life, for a time of joy. It is a riddle of the ages,” said Deucalion. He steepled his fingers together and laid his eyes, searching, on Stiles’. “Is there anything you wish to say, Mieczyslaw?”

“It appears you know all, what on earth could I possibly add to the tale?” mumbled Stiles. He knew not which emotion to give priority to: the umbrage at being spied upon so brashly, or the sorrow at being thus disgraced, or the scorn at Deucalion’s smooth, detached dialogue in which he narrated his own story of misfortune to Stiles.

“So you take ownership of the young man?”

“Do you seek to humiliate me?”

A brief flicker of surprise passed through Deucalion’s eyes. “Not at all, Mieczyslaw. To be frank with you, I believe I have already unraveled the mystery through my own deductions. But I will not share my speculations just yet.” He straightened up. “I am extending an offer to you forthwith that you should remain here permanently,” said Deucalion. “We travel in the summer months, and it would please Aiden and Ethan to have you accompany us. I myself am looking for an additional member to our family.”

A hand reached out to cover Stiles’; it was nearly papery, a dry palm that did little but lay over Stiles’ knuckles in a poor attempt to emulate affection. It did not seem to come naturally to Deucalion—no, it was rather unbecoming on such a despotic man, and Stiles was overcome with yearning for someone else to be holding his fingers at this very moment, intense longing striking him like lightning.

“It is only fair that you know, Miecyslaw, that a true pack does not abandon their kind. They watch, protect, and care to the best of their abilities.” Deucalion twined his hands together to rest under his chin. “There—now you have seen the chessboard in its entirety.”

A grim fear chilled Stiles’ insides; it was as if awakening to a lion’s den one had mistaken for a cot. Were the benefactors he had sought sanctuary in the very same creatures he had run from? What sordid coincidence—or was it it naïveté that had Stiles blaming little more than unfortunate luck?

“I do not understand.”

“Forgive me for relying on assumption, but you escaped your previous establishment out of anger, did you not? Or fear, perhaps? Your masters had kept a great secret from you. I am determined to not do the same.”

The fingers imprisoning his gave a gentle squeeze. A storm of sensations flooded Stiles like ice water: what was being asked of him? His chest heaved with the force of Deucalion’s gaze on him, one Stiles felt but did not seek out with his own—to do so felt unwise, as if the man would be able to read the weakness present in his eyes as he struggled to make sense of his words. He knew not how Deucalion could call such a thing an avoidance of treachery: Stiles felt as betrayed as he had the last time he had been thus fooled. Months had he lived here, stayed here, laughed here, and still, here he was, none the wiser until it behooved his benefactor to let him in on the secret.

“My pack could benefit from an addition,” he went on. “And I believe that addition could be you. It is altogether possible that kismet brought you to my doorstep, and fate sees to bond us together eternally, as I am sure that there is innumerable measures of magic within you that would suit my pack and I well.”

“You speak too casually, sir,” said Stiles, shocked to find that his voice had been reduced to a shiver. “I know nothing of which you speak.”

“You did not inquire for details of the beasthood in your precious place of employment?”

Stiles could do little but shake his head. It felt unnecessary to attempt to explain that it was asphyxiating emotion that had driven Stiles out, that to linger and converse over the matters calmly had been as impossible as it would have been to accept the circumstances wholly, not because it was easy to understand, but because Stiles feared that Deucalion would not understand at all.

“Whatever questions that are troubling you that are in my capability to answer—”

“I have but one question,” interjected Stiles. He felt a damp welling in his eyes that he desperately attempted to blink away. “What are you asking of me, sir?”

“A union between us would be sensible,” said Deucalion. His voice was void of true emotion, even while speaking of a decision of such magnitude. “I would have no qualms, and I doubt Ethan or Aiden would either.”

“And what of mine?” murmured Stiles miserably.

“Speak of them, if they exist.”

“They do exist! How could they not? You speak of avoiding the blow that sheltering me from your true nature would prevent, yet I feel more struck than ever.”

“Is it fright that holds you back?”

“Fright!”

“Yes, of our kind.”

“I have been in the presence of _your kind_ for too long to be frozen with fear,” spat Stiles. “It is lack of love, which I feel nothing of, that drives me to my doubts.”

“Love is unnecessary,” said Deucalion. “Our marriage would be quite strong without it. It would be based on elements that were undoubtedly missing from your previous engagement.”

A stake of ice lodged itself within Stiles’ stomach. He knew that, as agonizing as their discussion had been thus far, to touch upon the failed marriage he had almost undertaken would be a brutality far magnified.

“To be clear, I do not indict you with such a declaration. The fault lies, in its entirety, with the man you were to marry. He is a disgrace to our kind, who do manage to maintain a level of sophistication and abstemiousness that he has, in what I have heard of the man, been unable—”

“No, no more—you are implausibly incorrect, and have chosen your audience unwisely,” Stiles said with a sharpness he was rare to hear in his own speech.

He knew nothing of wolves, were or otherwise, but he knew Mr. Hale, and merely hearing such a disparaging word spoken on his character sent an incensed fire through him. The outburst seemed to surprise Deucalion, although it was only evident in the barest of details; he could command his countenance masterfully. Perhaps Stiles’ passion had seemed mercurial to him, out of character, but it occurred to Stiles that it was hardly so—an ardent nature was an integral part of his person, even if he had been forced to smother it in the quiet household under Deucalion’s watchful, serene gaze.

“You speak very highly of the man you left of your own volition,” Deucalion observed. He raised one delicate eyebrow. “Or did you not?”

“You do not know him,” said Stiles. “Or my history of him, despite your underhanded research into my background.”

“Underhanded? Can you truly blame a man for searching for information on a man he is considering bringing permanently into his home as his forevermore companion?”

“And that is an assumption you have made without my consent, and to presume that I would ever accept such an invitation is as ill-mannered as it is arrogant.”

“I would’ve thought you to be more grateful to the man that saved you from a most tragic death in the wilderness.”

“My gratitude is there, but it does not extend to a loveless union for no discernible reason, nor does it blanket forgiveness over the mysteries you have cruelly kept from me!”

Despite Stiles’ rising fury, Deucalion’s despotic visage remained unmoved; Stiles believed he would have preferred to see equal measures of emotion appear, as the stoic coolness was impossible to properly read. More than ever, Stiles missed the emotive face of his former master, of the rage and affection and authority that reigned on his face in equal measures, of the softness that often peered out from beneath the hardened, cicatrized face.

He rose to his feet. “You claim to have vouchsafed me the benefit of honesty, but you have harbored the same secret from me that I have been sheltered from before, which I could have forgiven, possibly, if not for the felicitation of your own character, as if you are somehow a rank above the men who have previously wronged me as you have.”

Deucalion did not reply. For a long moment, Stiles suspected he was not dignifying Stiles’ comment with a response, especially when his eyes remained motionless on the chessboard, as if disregarding that he had spoken at all. He picked up a marble king, eyes focused on its shine, and seemed to regard it as if it were a third addition to the conversation.

“Your vehement refusal tells me much of the affairs of your heart,” said Deucalion. “If you loved him so, as it’s clear you do, why have you taken such great pains to leave him, and even greater not to return?”

“To pry in such matters is unbelievably crass,” muttered Stiles. “And besides, I do not love him.”

Deucalion drew a careless hand and waved it. “No matter. I can spot the lie from rooms away.”

Stiles could feel his lips turning lividly pale as they pressed together, as if to hold in venomous words that were clawing for an escape. “You can, can you?”

“I can tell many things, Mieczyslaw.”

What he did not know, Stiles felt quite confidently, was anything concerning the affairs of his heart, which were his own secrets to bear. His face was over-hot with a stoked temper, and an animosity he had never before felt for the man sitting, dispassionate and aloof as always, struck within him like a whip.

“You expect me to show gratitude for the proposal you have bestowed me,” Stiles said, rising. “But there is none within me to give, not at present.”

“Perhaps you ought to compose yourself,” Deucalion suggested.

“Perhaps.”

Stiles quitted the room with much haste, his heart brimming with rage and confusion all at once, the pressure of both bearing down on him. He knew without glancing backward to check that Deucalion oversaw his hurried retreat, but thankfully did not find it prudent to chase after him. Stiles found solace in the privacy of his room, although he remained unsure of just how private it truly was—could the house’s inhabitants still hear his thundering heart? Could they smell his unrelenting emotion? What were they privy to that Stiles meant to keep to himself but had no control over in the eyes and ears of these supernatural beings and their otherworldly powers? It was like witchcraft, impossible to comprehend, an inescapable force that was destined to follow him from town to town. Stiles longed to sit and sleep and let the day’s events wash away from him in dreams, but he found he did not feel secure enough—all night, instead, his pulse beat a frantic rhythm against his neck, coursing urgently underneath his flesh.

Aiden came to fetch him at dinner time, rousing him from his spinning thoughts with a tender knock on his door, but Stiles rebuked his offers, claiming he had no appetite and no hunger for dinner. He knew it would be wise to eat, but his heart was not in the act—in fact, he dreaded that he would not be able to process the food at all would he divulge in dinner, especially sat next to his housemates, burning from within at their newly thorned circumstances. He knew not what the twins knew of Stiles’ disagreement with Deucalion, if they had overhead the exchange or been informed of it, but he had no desire to expound on it or pretend all was well regardless. He went to bed, hardly registering anything but the bone-weary exhaustion that seemed to claim him despite his little physical activity of the day, and was asleep within minutes.

\--

Stiles’ sleep was most fitful. He dreamed of Deucalion’s hardened gaze, of a life spent in misery in this very cottage, of his former master, alone and wretched and wild in his isolation and grief.

Oh, how he longed for a message, for an acknowledgement, for a reply to his letters. To just know that Mr. Hale was well would already suffice to ease his aching soul.

A firm knock on the door alerted him of the rest of the world; he had spent the majority of the morning in bed, doing little to move or muster energy, focusing instead on wallowing in his own demanding thoughts. He suspected it to be Aiden once more, perhaps inquiring after Stiles’ need for breakfast, but then the door tipped open and Deucalion stepped forth.

Stiles did not meet his steely gaze. He feared that the visit could have but one purpose: a second attempt at swaying Stiles’ unfavorable opinion toward Deucalion’s proposal, and he did not want to entertain further talk of it, but then a letter was thrust before his face, a yellowed envelope addressed to Stiles himself. In flourishing characters, the sender’s name was written in the corner: _Mr. Derek Hale._

What an urgent beat claimed Stiles’ heart then! A dozen questions deluged him: how did the man find Stiles? Why had he written? Was his uncle in good health, or was the epistle the bearer of bad tidings?

A hand lay suddenly on his forearm as Stiles went to tear open the letter. “Examine your options before you act rashly, Mieczyslaw. By reading this letter, you are allowing your former life to once more seize your soul and warp your mind. Leave it unread and in the past if you wish to move forward.”

The idea was laughable: the curiosity alone would kill Stiles sufficiently without leaving any stain of crime behind. He was already bursting with impatience to tear into the envelope with all due haste, uncaring of Deucalion’s presence behind his shoulder.

> _Dear Mr. Stilinski,_
> 
> _I was informed of your new lodgings by a few travelers in town. I am thankful to learn that they were instrumental in rescuing your life when you were in peril—at least, this is the tale I was regaled with—but I fear you may be unaware of their true colors. If they have paraded themselves as innocent bystanders, know such a story to be grievously false: they are a powerful pack with claim to much land in the region, land that they have fought and defended most brutally. While I understand that there is often a deep divide between legend and truth, and that much is frequently lost when told from a storyteller’s lips, I find it only necessary to warn you of Deucalion’s reputation. If the rumors concerning you and your place of residence are all fiction, then disregard my worry entirely._
> 
> _If my worry is sound, however, I urge you to seek alternate housing. If the situation is dire, write to me and I shall see that your safety is secured._
> 
> _Mr. Derek Hale_  
> 

Stiles read the letter over and over, terrified that he had, in his nervous haste, skipped over vital points. He was in disbelief that it did not mention the Hale House, it spoke in any way of its mercurial master, of whom Stiles was hungry for news from, and was nearly convinced by his own disappointment that a crucial page had gone missing from the envelope.

“That is the message in its entirety,” said Deucalion. Stiles had forgotten the man’s presence entirely until then, but he cleared his throat and made himself known once more. “You seem to be searching for more—is what is there unsatisfactory?”

“No,” lied Stiles. He felt like an animal teased and baited, lured with hopes of food and drink only to be led to waterless, lifeless depths. The need to know if Mr. Hale had resumed life as normally without Stiles was all-consuming, a desire that had become as vital as breathing. To know that he had left the man as a broken shell—

“You must move forward,” said Deucalion. “To lean so heavily on the happiness and grievances of the past—”

“I am not guilty of that.”

“You are,” Deucalion accused. “And it is foolish. You must look ahead and see to your future.

Stiles found such a task impossible, and he was uncertain if even the sands of time would ever remedy it. He was wrought with plaguing thoughts of his previous life, of the man he had been at the Hale House, of the friendships he had created, of the joy he had briefly shared with Peter. He had no right to think back on him so fondly—after all, the man was most likely happy once more, perhaps even more so than with Stiles. The thought wounded as much as it soothed.

“I cannot leave my past in the dust of my accomplishments if I am haunted by it, as I am.”

“Then we have reached an impasse, Mieczyslaw. Your loyalty is torn—some of it perhaps resides here, but not the majority, which is still restlessly tied up in a life you have abandoned.”

Deucalion’s voice had grown steel-hardened and cool; any warmth that had ever resided there—which had never been brimming—had been iced. Stiles met his authoritative gaze, statue-like in how firmly it rested on his sharp features. He continued speaking.

“I have offered you the opportunity to be one with my pack, an invitation that is overfull with a future of benevolence and companionship, but if you refuse to accept such a magnanimous offer, I fear you cannot reside in my home any longer. Your loyalty is weak here. It flits above the House like a trapped insect, wings clipped, as if it is imprisoned.”

Stiles was quick to shake his head. “I have never once likened residing here as imprisonment, sir.”

“I know your heart better than you yourself—it holds no secrets from me, even if it does to its own frame. Faith is crucial to any pack, Mieczyslaw, and you have no true ties here.”

“Be clear in your speech, sir.”

Deucalion seemed to consider him. Stiles was certain that his benevolence was faux, a cleverly manipulated wording that allowed his demands to appear as if they appealed to Stiles’ own wishes. He dropped the facade as he continued to speak.

“I will provide you with as much time as you need to make up your mind—but you must choose, Mieczyslaw. You must decide where you belong, and where you will flourish.”

He turned and left the room, uninterested in Stiles’ reply. If at any point, Stiles felt warmth from the man, it had evaporated, leaving a cold spell behind that frosted over all of his well-meaning words.

He set about writing a response to Derek Hale at once; within moments paper was at his service as he scribbled, quite madly, a reply. He wished to assuage him of his worries regarding Deucalion, but found as he wrote, he possessed very little information about the man himself, such as his background or his history or even his true nature, unless, of course, the icy deportment he was now handling Stiles with was himself without containment.

He spent very little time on himself, however, moving directly into a line of questioning regarding Peter’s well-being. Before he could disallow his ink to write the words, he was requesting Mr. Hale’s presence, for the offer he had so freely promised to take Stiles far away from the cottage he had begun to feel improperly grown in, like a plant buried amongst stones that was unable to break their strength and breach the surface. He felt, stronger by the hour, the need to return home, to Beacon Hills, and obey the thirst in his soul for the home he had unjustly abandoned.

Within minutes, he had the letter addressed to Hale House. He would have liked to remain in the confines of his room longer, escape the reality that lingered outside the door, but wanted the letter posted immediately. Upon vacating the room, however, he discovered Aiden leaning against the hall, worry written across his face.

“Deucalion said—” he began. “I fear you may think the very worst of us.”

“It is true, then?”

He was scraped raw within. He had lost count of how many times this very secret had been kept locked away from him, and how many more times he would be destined to endure the reveal. Aiden looked most apologetic, if not pitiful, and Stiles did not wish to see him in such a state.

“You must understand, it is not information one shares with all,” said Aiden. Stiles did his best to not feel affected by the words—he had thought that his friendship with the twins had transcended him beyond the level of comfort they felt with strangers, but he knew it was not his place to feel indignation. “Caution is the key to peace. There are others—many who seek to destroy our kind.”

The very idea that anybody had at any moment considered Stiles to be such a threat was absurd! He laughed aloud, but not with mirth. “I came to this house half dead, not with schemes of violence held close to my chest.”

“That was easy to see soon enough.”

The apology Stiles had expected was not spoken. Was he being pitied yet again? For falling for the falsehoods, perhaps, for the screen of normalcy that had been erected over the men who had taken him in that Stiles had watched, rapt, like a gullible audience member? Their mission of devastation, however inadvertent, had been fulfilled, and Stiles longed for nothing but privacy. If Aiden was not present in his room for the purpose of providing answers and explanations regarding the half-human pack members that all lived within the cottage and the miracle that was werewolves themselves, Stiles had no interest in maintaining a conversation with him.

“I am tired,” he lied. “We can speak of this in the morning if you’d like.”

“All right,” said Aiden, and he quitted the room. The closed door left Stiles once more in solitude, a state he both craved and wished to no longer desire. 

\--

Months passed without word from Derek Hale, despite Stiles’ labored dedication to checking the post. Discretion was no longer on his side, and his impatience had begun to make itself notable to the twins, as well as Deucalion, who had become frostier than ever with him, perhaps because it was easy to perceive where Stiles’ loyalty was erring. Even though he had promised Stiles infinite time to make a decision, it was clear to Stiles that this had been untrue; although he refrained from directly demanding Stiles’ leave, he was doing his best to make Stiles as uncomfortable as possible in the cottage, his coldness toward him beginning to fall on the side of crudity, if not cruelty. Gone was the benefactor who had rescued Stiles from the elements, who he had first believed to be kind and warm-hearted.

Stiles could wait no longer; whether or not Derek Hale responded to his written pleas was no longer a factor that controlled his decisions. He was hardly still welcome in Deucalion’s household, and even if he were, Deucalion had accurately declared that Stiles’ loyalty strayed far, straight back to the Hale House that he had so blindly fled all those months ago. If Peter was keen on turning him away, as Stiles truly had no knowledge on the state of Peter’s opinion of his former butler after he had fled so silently, then so be it. It was crucial for him to attempt to return if nothing else.

He had planned to leave in much the same way he had left Hale House: at nighttime, shrouded by darkness to keep his plan hidden, but the sun rose quickly and outran Stiles’ attempts to prepare—not just his physical belongings, but his frayed anxiety as well—and by the time he descended to the front door, Ethan and Aiden were already awaiting him, aware of his breakout. They looked horribly distraught, if not stricken, and Aiden reached out to seize Stiles’ forearm as he approached.

“Whatever Deucalion and you have disagreed on is not worth such a separation,” pleaded he. “If he is cross with you and demands your departure, we may convince him otherwise.”

Stiles shook his head resolutely. “He has demanded my departure, although not so strongly, but has made it clear that I cannot remain here in your hospitality on my own terms. Needless to say, it is I who decides to depart today.”

“Why?”

“I must seek out an old friend and smooth out any trouble that has grown between us.”

“Has Deucalion paid for the passage?”

“He knows not of my plan.”

“He will!” assured Ethan. “And I daresay he will fund it. Your task sounds noble indeed.”

Stiles shook his head once more; he could not help feeling that nobility played little part in this. It was greed that drove him, greed for the small bits of Peter’s spirit he could drink in, to behold his handsome face and see it well and flushed with color one last time, little more than selfishness at its core. He could not even bring himself to protest when Ethan pushed a handful of coins into his palm and folded his fingers over them.

“To ensure you a journey homeward,” he said. Whether he spoke of _home_ as Deucalion’s cottage or Hale House, Stiles could not make the distinction.

Stiles accepted the generous gift and embraced them both farewell. He feared, in truth, that he would not be strong enough in his own capacity to still return to the cottage after seeing the face of the man he knew he still fiercely loved. Home! What a silly concept, for it had little to do with the house itself—the cottage he was in now, after all, was more than decent, with strong bricks and spacious rooms, even though it lacked the most important features Stiles lusted after: the people that added life and love to the buildings that, by themselves, were distant and cool.

He took off when the air was still crisp; morning dew had just settled over the grass and left the air smelling exceedingly fresh as birds began to sing their good mornings. He walked until the main road met him, at which point he planned to board a carriage and pay the driver to bring him to Hale territory as quickly as possible, but it was still early, the sun not yet kissing the horizon, and the roads were still vacant. Impatience had begun to fester in him like a growing weed, and more than ever, he longed for the journey to be over and for him to be already on the steps of the Hale House, moments away from laying his eyes on Peter. 

The trip was treacherously long for a mind as torturous as his own, one that tended to scratch itself raw when given the time. Sounds of meadowlarks and wind whispering through tall stalks caused Stiles to notice that spring had indeed come—when did such a thing occur? He remembered nothing of the changing of the seasons. Heat, cold, or rain failed to touch him in the confines of his quarters in Deucalion’s cottage and had left him disoriented and perplexed now that he was wrapped in the passing scents of fresh grass and open sky.

He eventually acquired the services of a chaise after a few hours of walking, the cold air beginning to penetrate his clothing and slow his walk. The driver asked Stiles to where he was headed, and as Stiles settled into the carriage, he replied, “To Hale House, over in Beacon Hills.”

The driver seemed puzzled, and his confusion did not fade even as Stiles began to give coarse directions. “Are ye certain that is your destination?” he asked.

“Yes, I definitely am.”

“If ye insist.”

The ride that followed was a slow, painstaking one. It was, Stiles noted, nothing like the carriage ride that, many months ago, first delivered him to Hale House as little more than a prospective employer; at the time, exhaustion had dampened his nerves, for he had been traveling for long, unending hours, and the present created a stark contrast, for Stiles currently sat on nothing short of needles. His soul, he was sure, was already waiting for him at the gate of Hale House, and it was only a matter of his body arriving to join it. What reactions awaited him there were unknown, and in their mystery, apprehension rose in Stiles’ body without fatigue—within an hour, he had chewed his lip red, shaken his leg tired, and worried his stomach sick. He had nearly asked the chaise to stop a few times so he could vomit over into the dirt, but had always managed to pull in the sickly urge.

Minutes became hours; hours transitioned into evening. Gray heaviness hung in the sky, cool and damp, and the chaise made stops only for the horse to rest. Stiles was unsettled, sleepless, unable to relax. By the time Hale territory neared and terrain became unsteady, off the course of the main road, the horse had slowed to a pace that Stiles knew he could easily overtake, and hastened to disembark.

The driver grabbed the back of Stiles’ coat as he made to leave. He had a look about him of a deer easily spooked as he looked past the spindly trees that protected Hale House from view.

“Ye must take care,” said the man. “They say tha mun who lives beyond these parts—‘e is unhinged. Some say tha very devil lives in ‘im. Half a man.”

Stiles shuddered at the memory drawn up at the choice of words; if only the driver did know, in whole, just how true the statement was. He was not afraid of what he would find behind the hedges, however, and gave the driver a wan smile.

“Thank you,” he said, and provided him with the money for the trip.

The carriage took off, the horse galloping down the slope. Stiles nearly ran down the familiar path—speed seized him most hysterically—as more and more landmarks sparked recollections in him. The trees, oddly shaped and arching toward the skies, had branches that spiked outward in ways they did in Stiles’ memories, and his dreams; he was getting close.

The last barrier to be passed was a large gate. It had rusted in the time since Stiles had last been here, and creaked a loud whine as Stiles drew it open. His heart was thunderous in his chest, floating in its untamable disquiet.

He rounded the corner, expecting to see the grandiose estate he had seen many a time in his haunted dreams behind the latticework of the iron gate—

Breath came short into Stiles’ lungs. What his eyes laid upon was not the masterpiece he had anticipated, but a destroyed chunk of wood torn asunder by flame and ash. Casements were crumbled, windowpanes collapsed, and what was once arced toward the heavens as three grand stories was reduced to a miserable pile of ruined remains. Fire had no doubt been the cause, but what had been the agent behind it? No soul was about to tell the tale; they had all abandoned the somber remnants.

He looked upon the scorched remains of the formerly glorious house, sure at first that he had stumbled upon the wrong residence, even as he recognized pillars and landmarks that used to stand proudly among the now skeletal ruins that sat, charred and disfigured, atop the burnt earth. How had this disaster befallen the house, and at whose hand? How much time had passed since the fire sputtered to death and the wreckage settled and the embers softened into cool ash? How many of its inhabitants had fled from the collapsing ceilings and broken beams when the fire roared and blazed within, taking claim to everything from brick to mortar to wood to stone?

“Mr. Stilinski?”

Stiles stood straight, shocked into alertness. Derek Hale was emerging from the gnarled path by the house, nearly a stranger in how he stood, wrapped in a dark woolen coat that curled around his jaw. He seemed to regard Stiles equally as Stiles did him, suspicion rife on his lineaments as he took in what he most likely deemed to be a mistake of his own vision. Stiles would have approached him had his legs felt as if they could walk the steps—as it were, the chunk of seared wood his beloved former home had been reduced to rendered him mute and still.

“Mr. Stilinski?” he called out once more. “It cannot be.”

“Mr. Hale,” Stiles responded once he had found strength in his voice, and even so, it sounded painfully wet, choked on unshed emotion. “Seeing you is like laying my eyes on a ghost.”

“I return the sentiment, Mr. Stilinski.”

Stiles gestured to the crumbled damage in front of him; he cared little more for idle chatter. “What is the explanation behind these ruins of Hale House?”

He wished the reason to be a peaceful one, but the sights he was beholding were preparing him for the utmost worst.

“The tale is too long and grisly to be shared in a few moments,” Mr. Hale dismissed. He had grown more glum since the last time Stiles saw him; his eyes had darkened and his facial hair had thickened considerably. He tore his eyes away from the remains of the building, turning to Stiles. “It scarcely matters now, but I was headed toward you. Did you not receive my warning? The man you were staying with—”

“I did receive it, although I believe you failed to receive mine, although now it is no wonder why.” Of course the blackened wreckage that now stood in the Hale House’s place could not receive letters any more than it could receive visitors or well-wishers; its time for such happiness had collapsed.

“What was in your letter?”

Stiles shook his head—the contents were equal to all letters he had ever posted to Hale House, no matter if he was addressing the masters or the staff: word on the wellness of Peter. To ask now straight to the face of his nephew seemed much too brazen, perhaps even absurdly optimistic given the state of the house. Was its master just as charred, just as destroyed? Had he suffered at the hands of the fire that ravaged the property? It was not truly out of the realm of possibility, however horrible it may have been.

“No matter, Mr. Hale. Why were you seeking me?”

“Your living situation was… concerning,” said Mr. Hale. The deep lines marring his face as he frowned spoke of more that he wasn’t admitting to. “And I knew it would do my uncle well to hear of your well-being.”

There it was—the mention of Peter’s existence that Stiles had been cautiously thirsting for outwardly while ravenously craving inwardly. His heart already felt emboldened upon hearing that the man was alive, and not lost to the burnt ashes that moved like dusted ghosts in the wind around the unintended graveyard of the Hale House.

“Is he in need of cheer these days?” Stiles felt safe to ask.

“He always is. But especially as of late,” said Mr. Hale. A pained grimace passed over his face—he seemed to regret the implication his voice held. “I mean not to indict you with that guilt. It is far more complicated than what you may believe.”

This allievement of Stiles’ culpability did not ease him. If his abandonment of his former fiancé was not at fault for the decline in his mood, a clear question arose: what did hold such a burden? Stiles’ anxiety was in no way soothed; if anything, it spiked ever higher, wishing that Mr. Hale would come forth with the dour truth he was holding in to relieve the suspense that had Stiles thus gripped.

“Enlighten me on the complications,” he begged, terrified and hopeful in the same breath, even as the smoked ruins in front of him prepared him for anything but a tale of miracles. “I will be outright with you, Mr. Hale, I am here for your uncle. I will find no peace until I have been assured of his condition.”

“Peace may not come with the news I bear.”

“Entreat them to me anyway. The lack of knowledge is worse than anything you may say, for my mind will feel obliged to fill in the silences with the most horrific assumptions if you leave me with the mystery.”

“I don’t think it is wise for you to see him. It may ease your conscience, but thoroughly wreck his heart, for I doubt he will be able to withstand watching you depart twice.”

“What if I have no plans to depart?” asked Stiles.

“Do you?”

“I am not sure,” he answered, the honesty coming to him with surprising ease. He knew better than to explain his entire story, but at this moment particularly, Stiles was reminded of Deucalion’s ultimatum, of the conditional support that awaited him in the south, one he knew he could never faithfully accept. But to swear on his permanence in Beacon Hills—what a premature notion! He was still quite convinced—and distressed—that Peter wanted nothing more to do with him than to delight in the pleasure of upbraiding him for his sudden disappearance and then demand his immediate departure once more. He expected anger and confusion to be the primary emotions that Peter would be embattled with upon seeing Stiles again, nothing of fanfare or grateful embraces.

“Certainty is something my uncle currently values above all else,” Mr. Hale divulged. “To have you reappear in his life for little more than a fleeting moment—”

“I need not see him,” bargained Stiles. “But I must know of his state, his health.”

“He was badly injured by the fire.”

There it was—the blow of bad tidings that Stiles had feared so very prominently, now struck directly to his sternum. “How badly?” he asked, barely managing to pull the words from his lips.

“For weeks he did not awaken from a comatose state. And now that he has, he is wheelchair-ridden, no longer an independent man.”

Tears sprung to Stiles’ eyes that he wished desperately nobody bore witness to. He knew how much his old master would detest such a thing, having to rely on others, having to concede his immense pride and self-sufficiency to members of staff that prior to the fire, performed tasks that Peter was never incapable of—now, however, it was unsure how much he was even competent of in his own. Stiles feared the worst, not only to his body, but to his spirit and state of mind as well. Oh, how he imagined the bitterness that might have seized the poor man! No wonder his nephew was eager to appease him, even with the barest of good news.

Stiles did not have a response to this, yet felt it necessary of him to reply. He wetted his lips, breathing in deeply.

“Is he horribly disheartened?”

Mr. Hale did not respond. His silence answered Stiles’ query for him. Stiles glanced at him, hopeful to see the man shake his head, reaffirm the negative, but his stony face was immobile. Stiles noted then that outwardly, he seemed free of burns and lacerations, blessed as he was to have been spared of the same ills that befell his uncle.

“If it isn’t too improper to ask, how did you avoid the same fate?” asked Stiles. Not a single inch of flesh seemed affected on Mr. Hale’s form, his skin unblemished, his back not bent by a hunch, his legs not dragged by a limp, all of him in seemingly pristine shape. “If the ordeal was as perilous as you recount, which I readily believe, by what godly power did you manage to sidestep the dangers?”

“I did not,” he said. “Although godly power, as you yourself have referred to it, may be responsible for my current state.”

“I do not follow.”

“We are uniquely blessed as the beings we are by magic that allows us to heal—on nearly all occasions, as it were.”

“But your uncle! For all the time I’ve known him, he’s sported the worst of scars down his face. And to now be bound to a chair due to his injuries—!”

“He lacks the power,” Mr. Hale said. “We are capable of much, but to overcome such a trauma, to rid oneself of such a scar—one would require great concentration, great power, perhaps only an Alpha would be capable.”

He seemed unaware that as he spoke, Stiles was primarily lost of the technicalities he mentioned as if in passing.

“Surely you’re quite knowledgeable about such matters given your current housemates,” Mr. Hale added, as if puzzled by Stiles’ bewilderment.

“Why?”

“Deucalion is an Alpha. He did not disclose this to you?”

Stiles shook his head. He was reminded, once again, of just how little he knew of his benefactor, a man who, months ago, gave off an aura of cool silence and calm authority; now, however, he was an ever-twining mystery that Stiles was terrified to uncover more of.

“Perhaps being so close to the source has deafened you to the rumors,” Derek said. He looked troubled. “You say that you felt no danger under Deucalion’s care?”

“It is true. Physical danger seemed beyond him, although he has a calculating mind, and nearing the end of my stay, I was quite glad to be rid of him.”

He did not seem convinced of Stiles’ testimony bearing truth. Stiles was wracked with interest regarding Deucalion’s true nature and what dealings the Hales had entertained with him over the years, but knew now not to be the time to ask: he was here for a purpose, and that purpose had just been delayed. He was at the place he had yearned to be at for months, but it was all for naught, as it was devoid of the inhabitants he was seeking. After each prolonged blink, he nearly expected to wake up from the nightmare in front of him after having fallen to sleep in the carriage, only to be roused by the clapping of the horse’s hooves. No such awakening shook him, and dread embraced him once more.

“I had never dreamed of such a homecoming,” Stiles murmured; his eyes were unable to look away from the crumbled walls.

“Homecoming,” repeated Mr. Hale. “Is it home, even still?”

“I suppose it cannot be.”

It was, in heart, but it could no longer offer the services it once did. The damage from weather made it clear that this lot had been long abandoned, and no one planned to rebuild its splendor. Home was an unsure thing now, not quite yet solidified in his mind, but Stiles was not anxious, nor did he resent his own actions to vacate his shelter at the cottage many miles away.

“Are you still staying with your uncle at present?”

“I am.”

“Where?”

“Further down the road, in a house owned by our family as an investment piece.”

He placed a tentative arm on Mr. Hale’s woolen coat; the muscle underneath was stiff and unyielding. “You must take me to him,” pleaded Stiles. “I would not have asked it, but to know of the state he is in, that he has been so thusly dismantled—I simply cannot leave without having seen the man.”

His heartfelt pleas fell on deaf ears. “I do not think it wise.”

“Then I shall walk on my own.”

“You haven’t a clue where,” Mr. Hale reasoned. However, he seemed remarkably surprised by Stiles’ pluck, which gave Stiles considerable courage to plow onward.

“The locals will know,” said Stiles. “I will ask around the village, and I will locate the man myself.”

“To what end?”

_To make up for lost time_ was the phrase that stood most erect on Stiles’ impatient tongue, but he dared not to speak it, half-persuaded it would wholly jinx the event by the time he stepped through the entrance. It was all too easy to imagine a world in which Peter thoroughly despised Stiles, and, under the unlikely circumstances of them reuniting, was planning on aiming both insults and objects at Stiles until he promptly retreated once more. But, he thought, he would, if nothing else, relish in the knowledge that Peter wanted no more to do with Stiles, rather than torture his own overactive mind over the following years with unsure, clambering thoughts of him. The reality of even such a sour reunion was preferred to the dreams of them sweeping each up in the gayest of smiles, heartiest of laughs, longest of hugs, which were little more than torturous illusions.

He tried once more to state his case. “You came for me yourself, Mr. Hale. Surely you expected this request.”

Mr. Hale’s lips thinned. “Yes,” he agreed, but still his mouth whitened as he pursed it, agitated. “But the sole purpose of my mission was to ensure your safety and remove you of Deucalion’s control—”

“Hear this: Deucalion has challenged me to accept his hand or be banished from his home. I chose, despite the threat of hunger and solitude, to seek after your uncle rather than to buckle down to the man’s offer. This must move some part of you, compel you to aid me ere I seek to resolve the matter myself!”

“You’re as stubborn and bull-headed as you are persuasive!” Mr. Hale chided him. “What's this of Deucalion’s proposal? He is in love with you?”

“No, sir, not one iota. I believe he thinks my addition to be beneficial to his pack.”

“Yet you refused.”

Stiles was reticent to admit to his romantic inclinations—as a pragmatic man with little time for excessive sentimentality, it felt absurd to even confess such a thing to himself, no matter how true he knew it to be. The notion of marriage, of any union, without proper affection, felt like something of a prison sentence, of self-inflicted madness, which he certainly would succumb to under the thumb of Deucalion.

“Yes, I did. I shall let you work out the reasonings behind this on your own terms.” He set his jaw forward, resolute. “Now bring me to your uncle, or I will leave now and begin the search on my own.”

His threats seemed to annoy Mr. Hale more than they surprised him, bearing apparently no impact whatsoever on his process of decision making, yet when he did open his mouth to speak, he said, “Very well,” in a low voice riddled with doubt. It was clear he had little faith in any positive outcome the situation could possibly result in, but Stiles was fully indifferent to his opinions; his mind was occupied with only one thing, which was returning to his old master and allowing instinct to guide him. He had no direct plan as to what he was prepared to do upon seeing Peter (whose reaction also played a great role in what Stiles’ answering move would be) but felt strongly as if one look at the man’s familiar visage would render all questions answered and all thoughts cleared.

Mr. Hale began a brisk pace down the path stemming away from Hale House and leading westward into town—it was a road Stiles had never traveled before, for all matters of shops and life existed in the opposite direction. The path was overcome with writhing stems, trunks, overgrown underbrush, and greenery that crept into the muddy, boot-beaten path that crept grassless and serpentine on the ground.

They spoke very little during their trek. Stiles was lacking breath nearly a quarter of the way there, leaving coherent speech a lofty goal, while Mr. Hale shot expertly ahead, rarely checking over his shoulder to see if he had lost a traveler on his way. Stiles kept up to the best of his abilities, working his way through the sylvan darkness that was beginning to settle as they wandered along forest-ridden paths.

Occasionally, a waning moon flickered through the bare branches of the trees, a silvery crescent that shimmered against its dark backdrop. There was still so little Stiles understood of the life of the werewolf, despite the company he had been keeping for more than a year, and he felt, for the first time, woefully out of his depth, and truly unable to comprehend the tragedy of the people he had prior believed to know so well. How had the full moons impacted Peter now that he was wheelchair-bound? He could hardly imagine the humiliation of such a proud man, suddenly unable to reach his potential due to the outward faults to his frame.

His nerves alighted anew, just as they had in the chaise, when the path became less road and more dirt. The mud was barely indented where they trod; few knew of this trail, and even fewer seemed to take it, but eventually, after a laborious hike among wildly growing trees and hedges, a sloping walkway appeared and gave way to a small gate.

The house behind it was fairly modest when compared to Hale House, which used to stand atop the hill with such poise and honor that it beckoned visitors from all over the country. In contrast, the house before them was nearly rustic, its appeal more in its solitude and the army of trees it was so well hidden by, blanketed by overgrown nature that allowed it to stay quiet and inconspicuous. It failed to reflect the brash, presumptuous nature of its owner entirely in the manner in which Hale House had effortlessly, as if it had been an extension of Peter’s personality.

Panic struck him anew as he thought of Peter sitting inside the quiet house. He longed to alleviate him of the bitter bereavement Stiles imagined him to be afflicted with, to redeem him from his suffering, but still had to be coaxed forward by Mr. Hale.

“You are nervous,” he observed.

“You can tell?”

Mr. Hale gave him a slanted smile. “It’s in the air,” he said. “At least, it is to a nose like mine. Come now.”

He set off for the front door, and Stiles followed, albeit slowly. The inside of the home was much smaller, but as a result, infinitely warmer in its comforts than its looming, grandiose sibling. The smell of a wood-burning oven and baking bread floated through the house among dark wooden panels, old-fashioned staircase banisters, and sparse furniture. Little had survived the attack of the flames, apparently, and what had, such as an old violin that rested in a corner, was singed along the edges. Many of the smaller effects, such as the opulent cutlery Stiles used to devote time to polishing, were most likely lost in the rubble.

He could make out noise from the kitchen—the servants must have been preparing meals or scrubbing dishes. Stiles had little concept of time at the moment; he had lost track of it sometime during his trek to Beacon Hills, and now nothing but the sky’s light gave him an inkling as to if it was dinner time or some time thereof.

They did not enter the kitchen, however, as Mr. Hale reached a stopping point outside a large wooden door that Stiles imagined concealed a library or parlor.

Stiles reached out and seized Mr. Hale’s arm once more, this time seeking assurance.

“Shall I introduce myself?” asked Stiles. “Or will you enter the premises first?”

“I see no reason to.”

“Will he be angry with me?”

Mr. Hale shrugged his shoulders. “You are a far greater judge of his emotion to predict his reaction yourself.”

His inability to give Stiles the answer he craved—that no anger would be present, but rather joy at the reunion—shook his confidence in the meeting. He swallowed down on a bed of nerves that had gathered wetly in his throat.

“Please,” begged Stiles, “be the first to speak with him.”

Mr. Hale did not refuse or argue, but he did fix Stiles with a very probing stare; perhaps he found his sudden bashfulness to be a surprise. Nevertheless, he pushed the door open and strode in, leaving it widely ajar to allow Stiles the opportunity to watch their exchange and follow at will when his confidence allowed.

Even just being rewarded with a sight of the back of Peter’s head sent Stiles’ body spinning. It was devastating to see his master stationary as he was. He sat, as his nephew had explained, alone on his chair, hunched and worn, like an old battled crow resting on a brittle tree branch. It was sheer restraint that held Stiles back from impropriety such as rushing forward and pulling the man close and placing a fervent kiss on his brow, for he wanted more than anything in that singular moment to see the life revive itself into Peter’s defeated frame.

“Can a man no longer be left in peace?” murmured Peter as his nephew stood before him. “I don’t recall asking for your presence.”

“You didn’t. I am here regardless. Have you eaten anything of substance yet today?”

“To be motherhenned by a nephew—what a peculiar annoyance!”

Oh, that voice! Stiles was jubilant, wishing to cloak himself in its familiarity. Much had changed in his absence—the home, the health, and even the disposition of his master, but his voice remained as crisp and pleasing as ever.

“You might also be interested in knowing that you have a visitor.”

“Send them away,” said Peter without pause.

“If you’ll—”

“I am in no state to entertain,” he snapped. “And I have seen enough of the wretched doctor to last me a lifetime.”

“It is not the doctor, dear uncle.”

“Who is it, then?”

Stiles, owned by a surge of bravery, stepped into the room. He meant to speak, to announce his presence, but his throat seemed to be sealed shut, panic sweeping in. The creaking in the floorboards as he stepped on them was enough of an opening, however, because Peter peered over his shoulder a moment later to locate its cause.

His eyes went from the floorboards up Stiles’ body, first examining the hand-me-downs from the twins that made Stiles appear far undressed when compared to his butler’s raiments, and then up further to his head, now currently tamed by a hat. Stiles tugged it off in an instance, eager to remove anything that might hinder the man’s ability to recognize him as he underwent scrutiny.

“Peter,” he said in greeting, knowing it was inappropriate to refer to him so casually after everything they had endured, but manners seemed moot at this point, and memories of their time together—hushed kisses, fervent touches, heated whispers—flooded him with all abandon, making formality between them seem as absurd as it was unnecessary.

Peter started in an instant. If he had been capable of standing, he would have done so immediately, but had to settle for twisting urgently around to seize a better view of the newcomer. He had indeed seen better days—right now, his clothes hung without the carefully manicured vanity that Stiles had always known him to pride, his cheeks overgrown with uncultivated stubble, and a heaviness to his frame that seemed to lift, like an injured bird attempting to hop to flight, as he drunk in Stiles’ presence.

“What rough illusion is this,” breathed Peter, disbelieving. “Away with you, unless you are of solid standing, of flesh and bone and heart.”

“I am indeed so.”

He was awash with distrust; confusion morphed into rage as he took into Stiles’ features, as if convinced that they were a figment of his imagination, a mere spectre that existed to torture him. He turned to his nephew for proof of Stiles’ presence.

“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded He looked as if he itched to rise, to draw himself up to high poise as he oft had in the past, a posture that Stiles had seen intimidate many a man.

“I found him at the sight of the fire.”

“Searching for you, sir,” Stiles added, for it seemed absurd to not make it clear. He took a step forward, daring to approach although not certain if his proximity would be met with distrust and violence, for Peter’s lineaments were most definitely brimming with them. “I never dreamed to find you in such a state. If only I had known—”

He dropped to his knees, suddenly blindingly apologetic. His hasty departure from months back seemed nothing short of selfish now, and Stiles found himself rapidly filling with regret, the same feeling that had crept in at the cottage in waves whenever he thought of the warmth and the affection he had left willingly behind, but stronger now than ever. How could he have ever resolved to leave this man before him! Never again, he vowed to himself, seized with love and remorse that threatened to push him to the floor. He reached out and touched Peter’s knees.

“It cannot be so,” Peter was still muttering, “it is too fantastical. I have dreamt of such a thing, but never has it met me in reality.”

“I have also dreamt of such a reunion, sir—perhaps we met in those shared dreams.”

A hand settled wonderingly into Stiles’ hair as if still confirming his reliability as anything other than a mere spirit destined to vanish; a thumb stroked over his scalp.

“It is his hair,” Peter said to himself. “And his head, and his voice. Why have you returned?”

Stiles did not want to speak of the circumstances that had driven him here, that it had taken a man’s loveless proposal to bring him back to his former master. The waiting seemed, by now, preposterous, if not detrimental to his own happiness. He wanted to revel and relish in the presence he had been denied, to make it abundantly clear that Stiles had no intention of running once more—the longer he kneeled here by Peter’s legs, the more he was convicted of his choices, of his want and need to never run from the man that should be his husband again.

The junior Mr. Hale shed light on the situation regardless. “He had been taken in by Deucalion’s pack.”

“Deucalion?” Peter repeated, and like a rekindled fire, a familiar fierceness flamed to life in his demeanor. The hand that had been reverently touching Stiles’ hair suddenly tightened its hold on his locks. “My word—have you any idea what danger you were in? What a fool! Yet I suppose I am as well, for I let you go oh so easily!”

“There was no danger, none that I perceived,” said Stiles. “There were good men there, all of whom aided me tremendously.”

He spoke not of the proposal, or the threat of engagement; he had the distinct feeling that it would send an already ravaged man reeling. Instead he laid his cheek on Peter’s knee, breathing in his scent, wishing to never be parted from it.

“Derek, fetch the cook at once and order him to prepare a large repast,” commanded Peter. “Stiles, you are ever so thin—you must eat with me.” He addressed his nephew once more. “And tell the servants to prepare a spare bed tonight. Our guest must be tired from his exhaustive traveling.”

“Understood.”

He left the room in large strides; Stiles listened to his footsteps and the groan of the wooden door as he closed it. Nephew and uncle seemed to have built a bridge in Stiles’ absence, for he easily noted the lack of petty disagreements and bickering in their latest conversation, and he wondered if the fire had not strengthened their bond immensely. It allowed Stiles some small absolution of his guilt, as it was a great relief to know that Peter was not shrouded in loneliness during this strenuous portion of his life.

“My dear boy,” Peter whispered once the door shut fully; warm hands found his cheeks instantly, lifting his head. “I had been certain that I would never lay eyes on this face of yours ever again—how joyous—how unexpected—surely you will soon evaporate and I will awaken in my chambers, teased to madness by my own fitful dreams!”

To offer him anything other assurances would, Stiles felt, be a deathblow to Peter’s well-being. “There is no nightmare, Peter, just I.”

Stiles was seized and gathered in Peter’s arms in moments, and then he was pulled and maneuvered into his lap. Stiles made a noise, worried about the integrity of the wheelchair, but Peter ignored it entirely.

“I should find you intolerable, impossible to look at! I should be overtaken with grief and fury! Yet now that you are in my grip, I feel ridden of these violent thoughts and desires. It is most unusual.”

“You are mad, sir?”

“If I were a proper man, I would indeed be, but I am finding it incapable to hold onto such hatred, not when you have only appeared in my imagination for the past few months and you are now here before me, exactly as I remember your every feature. You are here now, and you say you are here for me—do you speak of housework and nurse duties?”

“No, sir, I am not here to reprise my role as butler. I am here for you, for your mind, for your spirit, because I love you, and know you love me.”

“What assurance you speak with! Where on earth did you find such pluck?”

“I have always had it, sir. Absence has made you forget me.”

“Impossible! If only you knew, you wicked changeling, just how often you disturbed my thoughts—I was haunted nightly by hallucinations of your voice.”

“And yet you deny loving me?”

“I deny no such thing!” said Peter; his hands tightened marginally on Stiles’ hips as in anchoring him in place. “Perhaps I merely wanted to hear the confession escape your lips first. To hear such a thing uttered from a man I believed to be lost to me forever—oh, my boy, just to breathe in your scent once more.”

He leaned in and dragged his nose up the column of Stiles’ neck, contentment pulling shudders from his body. Stiles explored it with eager hands; he had thinned considerably, and it drove Stiles’ blood cold to wonder where else the fire had affected him, if underneath his layers, he sported rivulets of burn scars and mementos of the flames.

“Even just to revel in your company for one more night is enough fuel to alight my spirit for weeks,” said Peter into his skin.

“I can most certainly grant you that,” said Stiles. “Will you tell me the story of your injury? The fire that rendered the Hale House in pieces?”

“Not now, I shan’t,” Peter denied. “Now I wish to not think of such unpleasant events. I would much rather cease talking altogether. Now come here, my boy, end my suffering.”

He kissed Stiles with unrestrained need—if the wolf could howl, Stiles is certain it would have now—and was not content to limit it to just a few, renewing the kisses again and again until the breath was stolen from Stiles’ frame.

Only the arrival of the food disturbed them, although Peter nearly sent it away in impatience to keep his hands on Stiles, to rediscover him entirely. The cook—a new hire, Stiles noted, after which Peter explained that many of the previous staff had left his care after the shock of the fire—came in with a tray of bread, soup, and poultry for the two of them to eat in front of the fire. Hunger, even after his arduous traveling, was the furthest thing from Stiles’ mind, and he wished to push aside the dishes in favor of conversation, for there was simply too much to say, too much to hear. He frequently leant over and brushed his thumb along Peter’s overgrown cheeks, chastising him for being so careless about his appearance, something he used to covet quite meticulously.

“Was the fire responsible?” asked Stiles. “Will you tell me the story?”

“You can think of little else, I assume? Your impatience has not left you, I see!”

“It is as keen as ever, now tell me the tale already.”

Peter consented; for the next half hour he spoke slowly of what had transpired. Speaking of it seemed to hurt him, his speech slow and his eyebrows furrowed close together as he shared the story. After Stiles’ departure, Miss Kate Argent had apparently believed Peter to be as eligible and free for marriage as ever, and proceeded to visit his parlor as frequently as possible for social calls.

“It was not borne out of concern for my mental state, although she did try valiantly to act as if it was,” said Peter. “Her sole purpose was to charm me, which in the state I was in, was grating to behold. At the time, I longed for no one but my lost husband to grace me with company.”

“Your lost husband—do you speak of me?”

Peter delivered him a very sharp glance. “Do not pretend to be so very dense, it’s unbecoming on you,” he said, which had prompted Stiles to succumb to laughter.

He went on to explain that Miss Argent, however, had fooled him regardless, for it was not even for want of a husband that drew her to him. Marriage was not her goal, but rather carnage.

“She’s a hunter of my kind, you see,” explained Peter. “Any seduction she attempted on me was to gain my trust and grant her access to my home.”

“A hunter?” repeated Stiles. “A hunter of werewolves?”

“Yes. And she very nearly succeeded in her plan of eradicating myself and the rest of my household, much as her father had managed to do with the majority of my now deceased family. She set the house aflame and did her best to trap us within.”

Stiles looked upon the scar of fire that still traveled down Peter’s temple, the very mark he had discussed with Mrs. McCall in hushed tones many moons ago, and realized he was now privy to the entirety of its mystery. What had befallen Hale House was not the first fire Peter had managed to survive, although the second had obviously created a more severe, profound impact on Peter’s health. Now even the night he caught Miss Argent wandering the mansion by candlelight made sense, when the fire had broken out in the parlor! A chill spread through Stiles’ veins at the very idea, one that was not warmed until suddenly, Peter’s hand furled around his own and broke him free from his own imagination.

“More often than not, I am happy you left Hale House when you did,” he confessed. “You managed to avoid a great tragedy. If you had not made it out—”

Stiles hastily slid his untouched hand on top of Peter’s. “Did everyone do so?” he asked, half-petrified of the answer.

“Everyone. Although most of the staff fled the following day in complete terror.”

“Have you seen them since?”

“Some have written. Others are most likely too shaken to do so.”

“At least your nephew has stayed by your side.”

“Annoyingly so, yes,” said Peter. “He believes me to be a complete invalid, one who can do no task on his own, perhaps not even drink tea!”

“It is concern, plain as day! And it would not surprise me if he felt extraordinary weights of guilt at having driven me away from you.”

Peter shook his head. “To believe it was all his fault would be a fool’s errand. I would love to shove the blame on his shoulders and relieve myself of the burden, for I am, indeed, a man who tends to delegate—but it would be unnecessary. I convinced myself it was unsafe to have you know who I was—what I am.”

“What you are, sir, is a monster.”

Peter did not look prideful at the accusation. He looked tired, rather, like a man deprived of sleep for eons. “That is true.”

“You should hear what the neighbors have to say about you,” said Stiles. “They talk of you as if you are an abomination, a demon! It is nearly laughable.” He squeezed Peter’s hand to draw his attention. “Regardless, the monster is not to be feared, at least not by myself. It is a part of you, and without it, who knows what sort of bore you would be!”

“Never a bore,” Mr. Hale promised. The light of argument had been awakened anew inside him; Stiles relished in it. It had been far too long since their words had warred with each other. “But certainly a man of higher principles.”

“That man, I say, is not the one I love.”

“Say it once more!” Peter demanded.

“I love you.”

“And again!”

“I love you, I do.”

It gave Stiles as much joy to utter it as it appeared to give Peter to hear it. It was wonderfully freeing to confess it, to rid his heart of the burden of longing and find, remarkably, that the heartache and lasting love had been shared by the man he had pined for. He should have sought to do it months ago, but regardless of the timeline, it still felt tremendous to save Peter from another night made sodden by the pang of abandonment, but instead lit with renewed love.

They both ate and drank heartily as they spoke, and Peter even called for more wine to be delivered. Soon, the fire had receded into little more than a handful of embers, the plates had been cleaned, and the moon had risen as night fell; with such a full stomach, the effects of the lengthy traveling affected Stiles soon, leaving him ready to sleep. He had never spent a night at the house they were now situated in, but felt as if he were already perfectly at home, and would sleep soundly.

“You no longer have to speak, Peter, we can bring you to your bed,” offered Stiles when he suspected that Peter was beginning to undergo similar drowsiness.

“No!” Peter cried. “I am hardly tired. On the contrary, I have not felt so revived in months.”

Indeed, the blue-ringed eyes were once more shining with a titillated light, with thirst for life. Stiles believed he would have remained thusly fueled all night long, ready to converse through all the hours, but Stiles’ own fatigue was demanding priority.

“But we have so much still to discuss,” Peter protested when Stiles once more brought up the subject of sleep. “We could fill many hours with our conversation, especially one that flows so smoothly, so genially.”

“And the hours will await us tomorrow.”

“And you as well?” Peter asked. “Or will I need to chain you to the cellar beams?”

“No such extremes must be taken; I will be here as well.”

“Give us a kiss to seal the promise.”

Peter’s eyes were kindled with mischief, but Stiles was more than happy to indulge him. He rose to his feet and kissed him, allowing Peter to, as he expected, twine an arm around his waist and pull him between his parted legs. A shameful heat throbbed in his midsection, begging to be addressed, but to give in to such carnal desires now felt childishly impatient, and the moment was not propitious for allowing their love to take a physical shape, no matter how much Stiles’ very veins glowed now that he was reunited with his master. Stiles withdrew from him, disregarding the gentle growl that left Peter’s lips in displeasure.

“Come now, Peter,” Stiles upbraided. “We have waited many nights, surely you can muster up enough patience to wait longer until you can have me completely.”

“I should have had you _completely_ months ago,” he said. “But if you insist on elongating my want, all the better. It will make the moment when I do finally have you at my mercy all the sweeter.”

As if confirming a promise, Peter’s hands skated down Stiles’ sides, the touch a bewitching tease. Then he rang for the servants to clean the dishes and conceded to ending the evening.

“If you do run off in the cover of night,” whispered Peter, “just know, my boy, that I will be combing the fields. You will not escape me twice.”

His protectiveness was endearing; Stiles could only chuckle. He understood his reluctance to let Stiles go—twice, as it were—perfectly well, and could do little but swear that he had no masterplan to love and leave his newly rejuvenated master.

Peter set about rolling down the room. He was deft with the wheelchair, fast if not sharp, his movements proof that he had mastered the operation of the wheels even if he had not yet mastered acceptance of his misfortune. Stiles offered to spare him his task as he watched Peter’s arms work swiftly at the roll of the wheel, for he knew his former master would accept such help from no other, but Peter, still a man absorbed with pride, refused.

“No, my dear, I am quite capable,” he said. “Watch—I am no longer the mighty werewolf, but I am still a force to behold.”

His humor was welcomed gladly. It was a massive relief to know that his wit had remained untouched by the flames, the majority of his moxie spared from the charring. With the dexterous celerity he had acquired, he hastened his chair down the hall, now quiet of any other chatter or murmur; all the others that resided here, Stiles suspected, were now fast asleep. It made the current nighttime feel, magically enough, as if it were only theirs; Stiles was not fain to give it up, even as exhaustion thrummed in his body.

“Peter?”

A hand grasped his. “Yes, my love?”

The endearment did not fail to spark Stiles like a match freshly struck. He squeezed the fingers tightly wound with his own. “Would it be all right with you if I do not sleep in the bed the servants have prepared?”

“Where would you rather sleep?”

“With you, sir.”

There was a long pause; it seemed as if Peter was restraining himself as he considered the request, his lip drawn into his mouth and harshly bitten.

“Do you intend to tease me, Stiles?”

“I am many things, sir, but not a tease.”

“I’ll say! Come here, you tyrant of mine.”

He hitherto voiced no objections and proceeded to pull Stiles into his bedroom with one hand while the other handled the wheel of his chair. Stiles found it no chore to help him dismantle himself from it and into the four poster bed that sat in the heart of the room, smaller than what he resided in at Hale House but ample nonetheless, and Peter seemed rather pleased that he was able to rely on Stiles for such a routine rather than ask for one of the servants, which no doubt had always struck quite a blow to his already wounded ego.

“My dear boy, I hope you realize,” he said as he settled among the sheets, voice rather glum, “that I may never possess the strength to do such a banal task on my own again. This chair may accompany me for the rest of my godforsaken life.”

“It is of no matter,” said Stiles, for it was truly not. Helping Peter with such trivial duties was no issue; if anything, it allowed him to feel useful in a way he never had for the man before, for any task he could complete for him was always one Peter was easily capable of performing himself but was simply not interested in bothering with. His newfound demeanor, still as bold as ever but exceedingly less smug, was an almost preferable change.

“It is,” Peter grumbled. “Healing is a basic function of any human, and I am not even that. I was born granted miraculous powers, and yet they have failed me tremendously—or perhaps I them.”

“You must learn to stop talking occasionally,” Stiles advised as he divested himself of most of his clothing and prepared the fireplace by the door, adding more wood to kindle it into a hearty blaze that would leave the room pleasantly warm. He slid into the bed after he was pleased with the size of the flame, hoping its magnitude would not alarm Peter into unwanted memories as it cracked to great heights in the confines of the fireplace, but found that its orange light cast a warm glow over the walls and sheets that was rather mollifying. “You think to a point of exhaustion, as if it is some tedious exercise! You are no less a man or a wolf now, and I think no less of you.”

Peter turned to Stiles as if taking in a sculpture that had been carved before his very eyes, a masterpiece to reverently behold. His hand found Stiles’ jaw.

“Surely I will wake from all this,” he said, even as he arched forward and laid a trail of heated kisses up Stiles’ bare neck. Stiles’ body vibrated. “Surely this is all a dream. It cannot be reality that you are here, that you have returned, and that you love me still, despite the handicap, and are assuring me of this in the voice I missed so very much…”

The accumulation of his facial hair was rough on Stiles’ skin as Peter kissed his throat; he was much like a beast, he noted, with his wild mane and untamed beard. Stiles looked forward to seeing the man underneath appear once again after some grooming—perhaps he would come in tomorrow’s daytime. Stiles ran his hand down his barbed jaw, touching the uncultivated hair.

“You look every bit the part of a wolf now,” Stiles told him. “Appropriate, I suppose!”

“Appropriate? You seem quite comfortable with the topic that forced you into hiding months ago,” Peter observed. “You no longer fear my kind?”

“I never did; I was only ever angry over the secret you kept. But rest easy now, for I have forgiven you.”

“What has encouraged such a thing?”

“Time,” Stiles answered. “And understanding, as well.”

“Your fury at my deceit has waned, then?”

“It is still there, I am certain, but I am paying it no mind. You can make up for such a deed with complete and utter honesty about your kind, about what you have shielded me from before.”

He kissed the dip of Stiles’ shoulder, perhaps in apology, or perhaps in pure reflex. “Whatever you wish to know, my boy.”

“There is nothing I do _not_ wish to know.”

The resulting conversation was exceedingly long. Peter spoke frankly and thoroughly, sparing no details, and explained details so fantastical that Stiles had trouble believing them: inhuman feats of strength, speed, and regeneration were only the basics Peter touched upon. The negatives seemed to, in Stiles’ eyes, far outweigh the positives—alongside the benefits, there also existed merciless hunters, painful transitions from man to wolf, and unbridled aggression during full moons that only careful control could master.

“It was easier for me,” Peter promised him when Stiles’ expression made his concern evident. “I was born with the blessing, unlike others—it allowed for easier discipline over the wolf’s instincts.”

“Blessing!” cried Stiles. “It strikes me more as an affliction!”

“No, my boy, it is a true gift, one I would offer to bestow upon you if it was in my power to do so.”

“Good lord—such a thing is possible?”

“It is, given the wolf is an Alpha in rank.” A strange look—one of envy, perhaps—flitted momentarily over Peter’s visage. “I’m surprised to hear that the man you turned to after leaving Hale House did not offer such a present to you.”

Stiles shook his head. If such a gift had ever been presented to him, he had been completely unaware, although he was positive it never came—Deucalion’s altruism would never have stretched so far, and he suspected that his humanity would have been something of a trophy for Deucalion’s pack.

Despite his ability to keep the hungers of the beast restrained, Peter admitted that they were also his downfalls, for he had oft succumbed to the bloodthirst and want for violence that soaked through his spirit; he had, as Derek Hale had told Stiles many months before on the stained day of their almost wedding, taken lives, mostly done in the pursuit of power. Whether or not he had overcome these ethical faults, not even Peter confessed to knowing, but he was committed to one resolution: being a man worthy of Stiles’ love.

Many things fell into place as Peter spoke, Stiles arresting his speech several times to interject questions. It was not until he explained that the wolf grew particularly restless under the spell of the full moon and felt it necessary to succumb to the animal shape during such a time that a mystery once unsolved suddenly concluded itself for Stiles.

“That was most assuredly what you were doing the night I found you so horribly dirtied in the mansion!” interrupted Stiles. “And why you had forbidden me to go outdoors.”

“You’re right. The wolf, when released, is not always leashed. Hale House was safe, I assure you, from everyone but its owner.”

“Would you have truly caused harm to me had I disobeyed your orders and stepped out into the dark that night?”

Peter’s hand, warm and reassuring, found his own. He held on with tremendous strength, as if still swamped with the fear that Stiles, like vapor, would soon vanish from the very air.

“I cannot be certain. Perhaps such an admission frightens you, but the wolf knows no bounds. Although, I must admit—he knew, with some certainty, that you were something to be cherished upon our first meeting; a deepset chord was struck within the animal, without a doubt, that fine October day! He has hungered most ferociously since your departure.”

“Has it affected your foray with the full moons?”

“They have been rough, indeed, as I have felt myself give wholly over to the monster, until I am in a near primitive state, having little to connect with or value in the human. But you must not blame yourself—the past few months have not been easy, but the chair can take the majority of that cumbersome burden.”

“It is no burden to me, no lessening of my love,” Stiles assured him. “I am, hopelessly, as enraptured by you as ever, to a point of hapless frustration.”

“It is a frustration, my boy, we shall sleep off tonight.”

His thumb caressed the arch of Stiles’ cheek. Adoration gleamed in his eyes, perhaps more ardently than ever before—Stiles knew not if his absence was to thank, or if the fire had humbled the man into appreciation—and he leaned in for a chaste press of lips. He then blew out the bedside candles, gathered Stiles in his grip, and tucked them together as if they were one whole, two pieces to be stitched and melted together.

Had he known that this satiety and euphoria was what awaited him back in Peter Hale’s home, he doubted he would have kept away for as long as he had—it was true, simple joy to be wrapped in his apologetic arms. It felt like a wonder, if not a conspicuous blunder, to have ever left at all.

\--

Sleep came easily to him, encased in the arms and scent and warmth of a man he had dearly missed for what had felt like, until this moment, stretched centuries. It was well past morning when he awoke, drenched in the sun beams that had penetrated the thick cluster of greenery surrounding the house.

The morning light was not responsible for stirring him, however, and it wasn’t until Stiles managed to fully wake that he realized what was at fault: Peter’s fingers were trailing feather-like over his temple, teasing the hair that had flattened over his forehead in sleep. He was propped over Stiles, a pleased smile playing at his mouth; he looked incredibly at peace.

“I very nearly didn’t allow myself to sleep last night, for fear of losing the dream I had experienced last night.”

“Did it not feel real to you?” asked Stiles.

“It did, but I had succumbed to many such liberations from the mind before, ones in which I entertained that your form was near me, and your touch was within reach, and I allowed myself to cultivate such a counterfeit reality until it nearly appeared as though it was in fact truth.”

Stiles did not reveal that he, too, was guilty of similar daydreaming when deep within the monotony of the cottage. “It is all real, and I have stayed the night, just as I have promised.”

“Your promise—yes. You have granted me the one night I have demanded of you,” said Peter. “What you choose to do next is your decision.”

It was clear that he fought to keep emotion out of his speech, but rather remain as unaffected and dull in word and expression both as he spoke. How authentically he believed that Stiles was considering his second escape from these beloved claws! It would have been laughable if Stiles had not been so wholly occupied by disproving his fear that Stiles was eager to carry on in his journey and return whence he came.

“What I choose is you,” he said. “There is no other option.”

“What of your previous home?”

“What of it?”

“Deucalion is a man of fine tastes and unwavering determination. There is no universe in which he would let you leave him peacefully.”

“He has asked me to marry him, this is true!”

Shock did not touch him. “And will you?”

Stiles could not help the laughter that was birthed at such a thought. Peter could have been living in poverty amongst the ruins and Stiles would still not have chosen to return to Deucalion, despite his generosity and hospitality that he would never fail to be eternally grateful for. The man lived as if an ice sculpture, one Stiles could not and did not yearn to melt.

“I will not, and if you knew all that I do, such a question would be as ludicrous to you as it is to me.”

“What is it you know?”

“I have bore witness to great love, just as I have bore witness to great respect. They are not the same, not exchangeable, and only one is worthy of marriage. Deucalion’s proposal was a dry and concise arrangement that stemmed not from love, not even affection, but rather convenience, and to have married him would have been to seal my own sentence to a life half-lived. Yet, if you were to refresh your proposal—”

“Say at last—say _again_ , my boy—that you’ll marry me.”

The words, although they had been uttered before, still brought ripe color to Stiles’ cheeks. He was overwhelmed by his tremendous happiness, and fully aware that his surroundings were responsible for it: the town, the company, the man before him. He reached forth and clutched Peter’s cheek in his hand.

“I will marry you, faults and beast and all,” Stiles told him.

“I am terribly glad you say so,” said Peter, “for I very much doubt I would have been able to take no as an answer, Stiles, after having you in my grasp again.”

“You do not have to take me prisoner; I come willingly. Do you detect a lie in my words?”

“I do not. You know that this is one of the wolf’s abilities?”

“I do! Oh, I marvel at all the things you have kept from me—how many times had you silently found fibs in my declarations?”

“Many times,” said Peter, but he was grinning. “That first evening, when you sat before me and claimed you found me hideous—what a flagrant falsehood it was!”

Stiles colored. The memories deluged him like a flood. He had spoken many fibs to the man, indeed, since first meeting him, most in an effort to retain his pride, but had yet to speak a lie to him since reuniting. It stoked laughter from him now, for he was able to observe the memory from a happy point, granted the powerful knowledge that their relationship, as tumultuous at it had often been, wound its way along an avenue that led back to their reunion.

Hands roaming across Stiles’ chest, eliciting whimpers from his surprised lips, stilled his thoughts—Peter seized Stiles’ forearms and pulled him atop his supine body, eyes aflame with want. Peter kissed him, or perhaps Stiles kissed him, or they met each other halfway as if they were magnets, and did not resurface again for quite some time.

“I can wait no longer, and you certainly can’t expect me to,” said Peter as he leant forward and nuzzled Stiles’ neck. His hands were already working at Stiles’ undergarments, feverish in their movements. “You are no quaking, tepid virgin—I could smell it on you the moment we met, and I welcome the chance to erase the memory of all other touches you may have at any point experienced.”

His promises felt akin to drinking strong liquor; Stiles all but melted in his grip as he was handled ever closer until he was sat atop Peter’s hips. The fire had not, he noticed, affected all his facilities, for he was already swelling considerably where their hips met under the covers.

He would not be able to, Peter explained, stretch Stiles out beneath him as he so desired—and had thought of many-a-night prior to their initial wedding date, due to his physical restrictions, and for a moment, Stiles feared that the fire had rendered Peter incapable of many of his previous abilities, but Peter soon washed away these concerns; he kissed Stiles’ parted mouth roughly, eagerly, and dispelled the thoughts as quickly as they came.

“I am as hindered as you may think,” he said. There was a low, pleasing lilt to his tone that made anticipation boil in Stiles’ stomach. “I will still drive you to pleasure, much as you will me—I am sure of it.”

Stiles believed him wholeheartedly; his hands were already reducing Stiles to madness as they proceeded to strip off every piece of clothing that stood as a blockage between the two of them. Stiles hurried to return the favor, ridding Peter of his offending garments as well. The fire had touched him most virulently, leaving behind violent traces down his torso, now pink and knurled where the inferno had claimed his flesh; Stiles traced the leathery scar down the length of his ribcage.

“Does it still pain you?” he asked.

“Sometimes,” said Peter. “But less so when you touch it, my boy.”

Even now, the endearment still thrilled Stiles immensely. He tenderly laid his mouth on top the reddened skin, laying worship to it, despite its weathered state. It was true that his former master had seen more handsome days, less roughened by pain and time, but remained exceedingly impressive under the opinion of Stiles’ eyes.

Soon, Peter cupped his cheeks and gathered him close once more, hands stroking along the angle of his cheekbones before trailing down his chest, and then his trembling thighs.

“Speak frankly, my boy,” Peter murmured in his ear. “Has your spirit been thus touched before?”

“My spirit? Hardly.”

“And your flesh?”

“Would it taunt the wolf inside you if I said yes?”

“It would taunt the man as much as the wolf, Stiles, have no doubt.” His hands ran down the length of Stiles’ shaking torso, gripping his hipbones with possessive strength. He spoke into his ear. “Is that your intent?”

“I will admit that I love to tease you, Peter,” confessed Stiles. He was an easily riled man, his husband, and Stiles enjoyed watching the sparks dart from his eyes, the anger twitch under his skin, the temptation seize him. He was patient in all matters but those carnal, in which he was no more composed than a child seduced by sweets.

As if to prove this point, Stiles reached for the flesh between Peter’s thighs. He knew little of the act and how to perform it aside from what he had grown accustomed to while pleasuring himself, but the faint moans that soon turned to low growls alerted Stiles that his inexperience was not hindering him.

“Not so gentle, Stiles, I can withstand all you have to offer,” Peter breathed in his ear. “Your tender hands will not break me.”

“Tender!” Stiles repeated in a huff. “You seek to challenge me?”

“Is it working?”

Stiles’ answer was a tighter grip that he delivered to much groaned praise. The touches seemed to kindle a fire within his master, and within moments, a lustful fire darted from his hooded eyes, as if possessed by his own pleasure. Peter’s hands ventured lower, determined to repay the effort as his fingers disappeared under the sheets and caressed the insides of Stiles’ trembling thighs, easing them apart until his fingers were able to brush over his most intimate spot. It circled and circled until Stiles whimpered with need, kindling desire that surged within him like a powerful wave rushing ashore.

“You are a horrible tease,” Stiles accused in a heady murmur.

“I welcome the compliment,” said Peter; Stiles could feel his smile pressed against his cheek.

Every part of him yielded to the push of Peter’s fingers inside of him, insistent but not yet savage. Stiles wondered how strong the beast was at moments like this, when little more than reflex and nature guided them, and he stroked continuously at Peter’s temples, nearly expecting fur to grow long under his fingers. He was impatient, unbearably so, to become one as soon as possible.

Peter answered his needy whines with a chuckle. “Not so soon, my boy,” he murmured. He withdrew his fingers, then returned with them slick and newly whetted; the new ease of intrusion left Stiles gasping, almost piteously. Peter continued to press inside him, twisting and stroking, circling until they pressed against an innermost spot that lit a sparking flame inside Stiles’ very being.

There was no overbearing pain when Peter finally entered him, for Peter’s preparations had been exhaustingly thorough, leaving Stiles in a state that was not suited to last—he wrapped his body tightly around the man who was to be his husband, finding himself vainly wishing that his current joy could carry on forevermore. Stiles sat hunched over him, resolved to do most of the work that came with the act, but found it no burden, even as his legs burned at the exertion. It was most liberating to feel Peter touch and feel and inhabit him in such intimate places, voids that were now filled and emptiness that was mitigated. He was nearly crushed by the immensity of his own satisfaction, his happiness.

Peter and the beast were one flesh, one soul inhabiting the same body, and now Stiles was joined to that very flesh, and was part of wolf and man both; he felt the equal halves rearing up inside of him, eager and wild at the sensations of their union, and loved them both with a fierceness he could not put into words. He cupped Peter’s face in his hands.

“Your tender hands will not break me,” he repeated, smiling. “Not so gentle.”

“Oh, you sorcerer—how daring you are!”

“You will deny it, I’m sure, but that is what you like most about me, I believe.”

Peter kissed him roughly, his hands greedy. “I will never deny it,” he murmured into the heat of Stiles’ mouth.

The wolf, Stiles suspected, took over at some point; Peter had spoken of the beast cherishing Stiles from the very point of their meeting, and Stiles could feel it rejoice in their reunion now as Peter’s rhythm became delirious, primal, animalistic. Stiles welcomed the abandoning of tenderness, allowing Peter to claim him as wildly as he liked, groaning praise into his hair all the while.

When he was at the height of his pleasure, Stiles felt he could hold back no longer. Peter sensed this; he no doubt could feel every spasmodic tremor that wracked him from this proximity, and he reached between them to grasp Stiles’ length.

“Perfect, my boy,” he said. “I wish to feel every part of you—go ahead.”

Stiles did, letting out a series of low cries. His thighs had begun to shake, the exertion of holding himself above Peter becoming too much of a strain, but he was determined to see Peter’s pleasure to its completion.

He followed soon thereafter, and reveled in his bliss much louder than Stiles, to the point where Stiles feared the servants would appear in concern for the welfare of their master. His eyes no longer held their human shade of soft blue—they were lit like ice in the sun, flashing like a flickering candle, and Stiles reached in wonderment to brush his thumb underneath at Peter’s flushed cheek.

“You delight the wolf as no one has ever had before,” said Peter in explanation. "Its love is of a rare birth, but you have kindled it."

"You speak as a character would," Stiles said; he thought as much before, but spoke it aloud now. "It makes me feel as if I am little more than a fictitious figment, living inside a page of mere paper."

"Is it a happy world, the one of paper?"

"Extraordinarily so," confessed Stiles.

They laid there as they were—entangled with each other, entranced, hot with love and exertion alike—and Stiles felt, more than he ever had before, that he wished never to part from his moment, but to cherish it, and lean on it, and find warmth from it.

\--

They were married, properly, soon after. The license was acquired with all due haste, and Peter had no patience left over afterward for dallying.

Even so, Peter continuously murmured—only for the privacy of Stiles’ ear—that he considered them married the moment he claimed Stiles for his own in their bed. The wedding, though, was not quite as private; Derek Hale was there, along with most of the absconded staff once Peter revealed their new locations and that most of them had not traveled far after the inferno razed Hale House—to see them all was a rapturous experience! He embraced Mrs. McCall as a son would a mother when she returned for the wedding, and he was delighted that their reunion affected her as it did him, for tears dotted her eyes as she laid her eyes upon him, a boy she had fretted over most painfully after he had left Hale House. To have her at the ceremony, he told her, was as if his own parents had attended.

Stiles extended the wedding invitations to his former housemates at the cottage, and while the twins were happy to receive the offer, Deucalion delivered no response. He was heartsick, guessed Ethan during his visit, but Stiles had dismissed his conjecture, for he knew better than to attribute Deucalion’s silence to a mourning heart. His absence could not, however, touch the elation that had furled around Stiles’ heart since he returned to Peter, and neither did his continuous silence thereafter.

“It does not surprise me,” said Peter when Stiles lamented the behavior. “You inflicted a severe wound when you rebuffed Deucalion’s offer to join his pack, only made worse when you chose to, alternatively, rejoin mine. The dynamics of packs are too complex, too webbed, to fully explain.”

The best he could do was elaborate on the possessive nature that most likely was responsible for Deucalion’s wordlessness; wolves, he said, were hardly forgiving, and intensely protective of their property. Stiles had found the entire concept outrageously old-fashioned—the propriety of it all was something he still rejected—but dismissed the unfavorable aspects of such a response as being connected to the wolf. Animals, after all, were not as refined in their emotional responses as humans, and Deucalion was only half that.

It was a stressing time, to lose the men who had taken him in when he was little more than a beggar, but Aiden and Ethan remained in touch intermittently as much as they could; Deucalion had been truthful when he spoke of traveling in the odd months and the warmer seasons, and the three of them frequently were not at home to receive correspondence. Loss was also present in other factions of Stiles’ life: Peter had no intention of rebuilding the destroyed Hale House, which burned a hole in Stiles’ heart about as deep as the fire that had touched the house’s floorboards.

“It would be an extraordinary amount of work,” groaned Mr. Hale at the suggestion. “The property is ravaged, a mere chunk of its former glory. Years would pass before it would be livable again. Is this humble abode no longer meeting your standards?”

“That is hardly the case,” protested Stiles. He faltered, unsure of whether he ought to continue or not. “In truth, I believe it would be a boost to your spirits.”

“My spirits? However so?”

“You and the house are one, alike in nature, appearance, character. It was an extension of you, Peter, and I think its lack of being has affected you.”

“Pure nonsense,” said Peter, and then drew Stiles to him atop his chair, no doubt his favorite location for he and his boy to rest. “I have no bond with brick and mortar. My bonds lie with mind and body, such as yours, which has seen fit to return to me after many months of waiting. I yearn for little else.”

Stiles could not resist the grin that pulled on him. “You yearn for everything,” he said.

“Perhaps. But less since I have been granted you.” He seized Stiles’ hand, thumb skirting over the solid ring that sat on his finger, the shining emblem of Peter’s commitment. When he spoke again, he did so quietly, almost cautiously. “It is an unspeakable happiness that I have landed upon, so great that I still wait for the day when it is torn from me once more. To find someone of such dissimilar character, such different construction, from a past heavily distant from my own, but to still establish such a bond—it is as incredulous as it is miraculous. You do not echo me, not facetiously, and not falsely because you may believe it is what I want, and yet I still feel as if you are my completion.”

Stiles was stunned, as he often was by his husband’s declarations of affection. Regardless, he scoffed at himself for being shocked, as he well knew that Peter was a man with a flair for the dramatics.

“Why you did not go into theater, Peter,” he told him, “is beyond me. You would have had many ladies swooning over your performances.”

“There is no performance,” Peter assured him. “Just as there is no pain felt from the loss of Hale House. It stood upon the hill for far too long—it invited far too much hardship! All my old ghosts went up in flames in the smoke.”

“You certainly had many of those.”

“Still a tyrant, you are,” muttered Peter.

And so they remained in the new house, with no intention of rebuilding the original. The present house was smaller, ideal for Peter’s handicap, as it had fewer staircases to grapple with. Peter grumbled constantly over his injury, often to the point of destruction—several times, Stiles entered the library to find books thrown and scattered over the floor, which Peter unfailingly took responsibility for each time. His rages were always reliant on his own inability to perform a task he was able to once with ease: standing and reaching for a tome was one of the simpler agitators that confounded him.

Beneath the daily conundrums was the deeper issue: Stiles knew, without having to ask for confirmation, that Peter regarded it as a sacrifice for Stiles to wed him when he was a chairbound shell of who he had once been, and that he waited, houly, for Stiles’ second abrupt departure. Worse still was that Stiles could not blame his paranoia considering their history, and given the chance, he was not sure he would have done it differently; while the months away were agonizing at times and wretchedly lonely all the other occasions, it gave Stiles a valuable gift, that of perspective. Without Deucalion, without Ethan and Aiden, without a loveless life of reclusion to offer him a contrast, perhaps he never would have drummed up the courage to return to Hale House.

He explained as much to Peter on a frequent basis; he complained constantly over the repetition of the story, but never excessively, as Stiles knew—as did Peter—that he secretly thrilled in the compliments, and did not mind being reminded of them. Stiles knew his husband would perhaps never emerge from the chair, but felt no burden, no favor, no debt was created between them by the assistance he routinely offered because of Peter’s mobility predicament. To be his rock, he told him, was sweet enough, and the rest—especially the physical caveats—was of no import. He knew that repetition of the assurances was the only weapon that had hope of succeeding against Peter's own doubts, and that through the test of time, they would wither away. 

“I realize I have asked before,” said Peter one day. “But if you wish for it, I am certain I could find a reputable alpha, one who grant you the gift of lycanthropy, and you would forever be one of my kind.”

Stiles did not desire it, as he had said on multiple occasions, but he knew the underlying reason Peter continued to ask: he considered it the ultimate amends for the betrayal he had inflicted on Stiles when he kept his inner wolf a secret.

“I already am part of your kind,” Stiles said; he felt it intrinsically to be so, viscerally. He understand the language of his countenance better than any other, and knew the skill to be reciprocated. “Or rather, I am yours, and that is enough.”

“Yes,” Peter agreed. “Yes, I suppose it is.” He looked out across the room, suppressed a smile, and rolled his chair to the piano that sat by the bookcases. “Come, Stiles. You will sing with me, won’t you?”

Stiles followed him and leaned against the piano, watching as dear fingers began to trace the keys. “I will,” he said, and listened as Peter filled the air with music. It was, he thought, just like coming home once more.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is (of course) from Jane Eyre.
> 
> Fun fact about this story: I do the majority of my writing at night, on my phone, in a google doc, which results in a lot of autocorrect passing me by (hellooooooo proofreading) and the best gem I found that displays this while editing was a line that was supposed to say "tall grass" and instead said "y'all grass." Did y'all know that y'all was Victorian slang? Hey, me neither.............


End file.
